The Shape Of The Past
by Eve Hawke
Summary: Prequel to "The Teyrn's Daughter and the King's Son". A peek into the past, touching on some of the events that shaped the lives of Lyra, Alistair and others before the Blight in 9:30 Dragon. Rated M for safety - language and intimacy in some chapters. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**_9:18 Dragon, Cloudreach_**

**_Highever Castle_**

Little Lyra Cousland was wriggling, impatient and bored. Her older brother Fergus poked her in the ribs, and she jerked away, a giggle punctuating the quiet. Fergus grinned, then tried to emulate their father's stern voice.

"Stop squirming, Pup!" he muttered. "Mother's annoyed enough, what with you running off this morning and getting all muddy, and now you've gone and tussled with Rory. Can't you hold still for two seconds?"

"'Snot my fault," Lyra's high, piping voice chirped. "He stole my sword!"

"And I suppose you had to bloody his nose to get it back, did you?" Fergus said wryly, and Lyra nodded.

"He deserved it! 'Sides, he'da done the same to me, if _I'd_a stolen _his_ sword."

"He would not either, Pup. Father would have him beaten if he hurt you."

"Why?" Lyra asked, cute little brows furrowing over concerned blue eyes. Fergus sighed, wondering how to explain rank to an eight year old. Before he could come up with something she'd understand, the door's wooden creak announced the arrival of their father, and they both snapped to attention.

Teyrn Bryce Cousland wasn't smiling. Light blue eyes shone with displeasure, those same eyes pressing them into their seats as he slid into the chair behind his desk.

Lyra shrank backward, expecting a scolding, and one of Fergus' knees began jiggling, his nerves getting the best of him in the face of his father's displeasure.

A twitch tickled the edge of their father's lips, and then his face broke into a grin at their obvious discomfort. He sat back in his chair, running one hand over brown hair flecked with gray. His face was still mostly unlined, even with the responsibilities of the teyrndom and two growing children to keep him on his toes.

"Fergus, do you think you can manage to keep track of your little sister for one hour, without allowing her to get muddy, tangle her hair, or rip her clothing?"

"Sorry, Da," he said. "She ran off. I was talking with Marta, and…"

"I see," Bryce said, raising an eyebrow, and Fergus squirmed at the look in his father's eyes. "We'll return to that subject momentarily." His eyes slid sideways to land on his daughter, who was attempting to disappear into the chair.

"Lyra…." he began, and her dark blue eyes filled with tears.

"Don't beat Rory!" she burst out, and began sobbing into her hands. Bryce's annoyance melted away. He went to her, knelt and gathered her into his arms, his heart going out to his tiny girl. She sniffled, and wiped her nose on the shoulder of his jacket as he rocked her back and forth, shushing her.

"Why would I beat him, Pup? You've already done it, haven't you?" he said with a small smile, and Lyra wailed into his shoulder.

"Don't beat me, either…" she trembled, and Bryce's arms tightened.

"I won't beat you, darling girl." He sighed. "Pup…you can't go around hitting people when they take your things."

"Even if they're mine?" Lyra hiccupped, and Bryce chuckled at her logic.

"Even then. You are a lady of Highever, and you must learn to behave as one. Dry your eyes. Your mother is waiting for you in your room to clean you up...again. We're leaving for Redcliffe this afternoon." He pulled away and looked at his daughter's face. Her nose was dripping, and he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and held it up for her. She pressed into his hand, _snrrrk_ing into the fabric, and held still as he gently cleaned away all traces of her tears. Bryce stroked her soft, round cheek, then dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose.

"Why are we going to Redcliffe?" she asked, and Bryce gathered her into his lap. She snuggled close, and he smoothed the hair at her temple as he spoke, tweaking the end of one dark braid.

"Arl Eamon has invited us to visit for Summerday. He plans to take a wife, and his wedding is going to happen after we get there."

"I've never been to a wedding…" Lyra said. "Will it be boring?"

"There are a whole week's worth of events planned," Bryce said. "I'm sure you'll be entertained enough."

"Will I be the only girl there? Does Arl Eamon have children?" Lyra asked, brightening at the thought of new playmates.

"I'm sure many of the noble children will be there… Arl Howe is bringing his brood, and King Maric is bringing Cailan as well, Fergus," Bryce said. Fergus looked up, interested.

"Haven't seen him in a few years," Fergus commented. "Can I compete in the tourney, Father? Please? I'm not so young anymore – I'm only three years younger than Cailan, and I know _he'll _be fighting…"

"Perhaps, Fergus. Let me think on it," Bryce said. "Is your armor in repair?"

"Yes, sir!" Fergus said, hope filling his eyes.

"Your mother may hang me…but yes, if there is to be a tourney, you can compete," Bryce said. A note of pride snuck into his voice. "Weaponsmaster Coren tells me you've improved greatly under his tutelage. And now, Lyra, go see your mother…and leave poor Rory alone, please? His nose is swollen enough."

"Yes, Da," she said, and slid off of his lap to scamper from the room. Bryce looked at Fergus with a quirked eyebrow.

"Talking with Marta, were you?" he began, and Fergus sighed, preparing for the inevitable lecture about a teyrn's son and a cook's daughter.

.oOo.

The journey was half the fun. It took a week for the carriages to rumble across the length of Ferelden to Redcliffe, but Lyra and Fergus spent the time in the best ways they could think of…running alongside the wheels through the tall, waving grass, catching bugs, picking flowers, and practicing with their weapons. Fergus was teaching Lyra, much to their mother's displeasure, and the small girl was already gaining skill with her short wooden sword. She concentrated on the movements, determined to best her brother, long sable braids flying as she spun and dipped. Eleanor watched from the carriage window. Her children would run ahead of the caravan, swing at each other for a few minutes as the carriages rolled up, and then they would drop slowly behind as Fergus corrected some stance of Lyra's, or showed her how better to balance. Then they would run to the front again, and repeat the whole exercise.

Lyra was so exhausted each night she practically fell asleep in her food, and Fergus was trying to stay up later, but wasn't managing well. The fresh air and the constant sctivity were ensuring that they both slept well.

"At least it's keeping them busy," Eleanor said to Bryce, who was watching from the other window. "I just wish Lyra wasn't such a…." she sighed.

"A tomboy?" Bryce said. "And what about you? Do you think you can fool me, Eleanor? I doubt you came by your skill with that bow by sitting in your mother's parlor and pouring tea."

"Yes, well, I don't seem to remember making quite as many mud pies as that girl does," Eleanor said, a smile crossing her face as Lyra managed to _whack_ Fergus with her wooden sword. He yelped and snatched it from her fingers, holding it above her head and making her jump and shriek in protest.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever make a lady out of her," Eleanor said, and Bryce drew her hand into his own and pressed it to his lips.

"You will, my love," he said. "Lyra has the very best of examples to draw on."

.oOo.

The Couslands rolled into Redcliffe the day before Summerday, and Lyra hung out of the window of the carriage, wanting to get the first sight of the famous place. Father had told her all about how it was one of the most defensible places in all of Ferelden, and she could see how that would be true….the castle was built right into the stone of the mountain, and a long, narrow bridge over a deep gorge was the only way to get to it. The town below was a variety of small cottages, some built out over the lake, some carved into the rocks of the surrounding cliffs.

"Ma, look! Ma, see, over there-" Lyra was as eager as a puppy, and had been hounding Eleanor for the last hour about the upcoming sights, sounds and smells.

"Lyra, for heavens' sake, I _see_," Eleanor said, exasperated. Bryce chuckled and tugged Lyra back in through the window of the carriage. Fergus rolled his eyes, arms folding into an exasperated bundle on his chest.

"Just like a dog, hanging her head out the window," Fergus snarked, and Lyra stuck her tongue out at him.

"That's why we call you _pup_, you know," he continued, his eyes gleaming. Lyra shrieked.

"Is not! Is NOT, Fergus!" She lunged at her brother, and Bryce made a frantic grab, his arms tangling around Lyra's waist. She was hissing and spitting like an enraged kitten, and Eleanor threw up her hands in disgust.

"Lyra! Behave yourself, or so help me-"

"Yes, _pup…_" Fergus grinned, and Eleanor rounded on him.

"As for you, young man… one more word out of you and I'll pull you from the tournament your father has promised you can fight in! Honestly, the two of you…Fergus, you're nearly grown. And Lyra, you're a young lady and I've had just about enough of this _ridiculous_ behavior."

Bryce let go of Lyra, who yanked her new dress back into place and crossed her arms, her blue eyes sparkling with unspent anger. Fergus muttered an apology, turning his face to the window and propping one cheek in his hand. Silence reigned in the carriage for a moment, and then Bryce touched Lyra on the chin. She looked up at him, tears glittering.

"Do you know why I call you Pup?" he asked, and Lyra shook her head, wiping her eyes with the back of one rather grimy hand. Eleanor sighed, and dabbed her tongue onto a handkerchief before cleaning away the streak of dirt that had smeared across one cheek. Lyra squealed in protest, head jerking, but Eleanor's hands were firm.

"Because you are just like a mabari pup," Bryce said. Her mother's ministrations finished, he collected her into his lap, her face twisting up in confusion.

"I'm like a dog?" she said, and he nodded.

"Do you remember the new litter that Kennelmaster Sam showed us a few months ago?" he asked, and she nodded, remembering.

"Those pups…they were playful, just like you. They were into everything, just like you," he said, fingers twitching into her sides and drawing laughter from her lips.

"They may have looked helpless, but have you ever felt a mabari pup's teeth?" Bryce asked, and Lyra nodded. The needle-sharp teeth had tried their best to pierce her skin.

"Just like you," he said. "You and that wooden sword." Lyra giggled, remembering the way Fergus had yelped when she smacked him.

"So…I'm like a mabari?" Lyra asked, snuggling into Bryce's arms.

"The mabari is one of the fiercest warriors Ferelden has, and one of the most loyal. Some houses value their dogs even above their family swords," Bryce said, and then pulled back to look her in the eye.

"And you, my Pup, I value more than any sword." He kissed her forehead, and she laughed.

"See, Fergus? I'm a _Pup!"_ Her voice was proud, and Fergus snickered.

"Sure you are, Lyra. And what does that make me?"

"A bigger, stronger mabari," Lyra said, and Fergus couldn't help but laugh.

.oOo.

Lyra dropped a small, rather wobbly curtsey, and her mother breathed a mute sigh of relief. Arl Eamon bowed, his eyes twinkling at the lady-in-the-making.

"It is a pleasure to meet such a beautiful young woman," he said, and took Lyra's small hand in his own to kiss her fingertips. She scrunched up her nose, scrubbing the kiss away on her dress when her mother's gaze left her.

"And this is Fergus," Eamon continued, holding out his hand for the young man to shake. "You'll be in the tourney this year, I hope?"

"Yes _sir_," Fergus said, and Lyra listened avidly as the talk dissolved into fighting and weaponry. Lady Eleanor was speaking with a tall, pretty woman on the other side of the room, and she beckoned Lyra over. Lyra trotted over to her mother's side, glancing back at the men and their interesting talk of swords and tournaments.

"Lady Isolde, allow me to present my daughter, Lyra." Eleanor said, and Lyra dropped the dutiful curtsey again.

"She is enchanting," Isolde said, delighted. She knelt before the small girl. "Are you going to be a great lady like your mother someday, sweetheart?"

"No," Lyra said. "I'm going to be a warrior like my brother Fergus!"

Isolde gasped, and Eleanor's cheeks flushed.

"Lyra…." Eleanor warned, and then Isolde gave an uneasy chuckle.

"Don't you think a woman is better suited to stay in the home and care for her husband?" the woman asked, her Orlesian accent making the words sound unusual and interesting.

"That's what servants are for," Lyra said loftily. "I'm a _mabari!"_ Eleanor was mortfied, and Isolde looked positively scandalized. Eleanor took her daughter's hand and began to lead her away.

"Excuse us please, Lady Isolde…we shall talk more later," Eleanor said with a parting smile, hoping that her cheeks were not nearly as red as she was certain they must be.

"What did I do?" Lyra asked, feeling the hard grip of her mother's hand.

"Lyra, you don't disagree with adults, and telling the great lady of a house that you're a dog instead of a lady is rather…rude," Eleanor finished lamely, wishing for better words. "For now, let's wash your hands and get ready for lunch."

"I don't like her," Lyra said. "She's not real."

"And if you say _that_ again, I'll take you over my knee, young lady," Eleanor was grim. "You_ will_ keep such thoughts to yourself. Remember your manners and act like the young noblewoman you are, or so help me…." Eleanor trailed off as she led Lyra to their rooms, intent on scrubbing her hands and rebraiding her hair.

"What?" Lyra asked, interested. "What will you do?"

"I'll take away your wooden sword," Eleanor said, inspiration striking.

"I'll be good," Lyra said, and Eleanor smiled to herself.

.oOo.

Lunch was a boring affair, but afterward Lyra was allowed to put on breeches and escape into the great outdoors. Her mother told her not to leave the courtyard, but it was still better than being in the castle, even though there were probably dozens of rooms that waited to be explored, maybe some of them with huge suits of armor or collections of swords and bows, or maybe even war axes or pikes… She idled about, her sword thrust through a scarf tied around her waist, and then she began collecting pebbles and building a small fortress with them. Fergus came outside after a while, but he had no interest in playing with her. He hurried down into the town to look at the tournament grounds that were being set up in a field nearby, and Lyra wanted to go with him, but he told her to stay where she was. She sighed, and plopped down among her improvised playthings again.

"Here…take a look at this," a voice said behind her, and she whipped around in surprise.

A small boy with reddish gold hair was holding out a bucket which looked to be filled with rich, red mud.

"What's so special about that?" Lyra asked. "I've seen mud before."

"We can use it to stick your stones together," the boy said, and knelt down beside her. "See…" he smeared a bit of mud in between two of the stones, and Lyra's eyes widened at the impromptu cement.

"Say, yes!" she said, and they began improving the fortress, turning it into a real structure. Lyra ran around the yard collecting small sticks and pieces of grass to use as flags and fences, and the boy continued to carefully build up the walls.

"You're good at this," Lyra said, excited to see the structure grow. The boy shrugged.

"It's a good way to play by yourself," he said, careful fingers smoothing one of the walls.

"I hate playing by myself," Lyra said. "Do you have a sword?"

"A what?" the boy said, looking at her. She pulled her wooden weapon from her waistband.

"Y'know, a sword?" she said, and brandished it.

"Oh….no. Not one of my own," the boy said. Then he brightened. "But there's practice swords in the armory."

"Can you fight?" Lyra was eager, and he shrugged.

"A little, maybe."

"Come on, then!" she said, and the boy grinned and led the way to the armory with her right on his heels.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: So hey! Um, just FYI: This story is meant to be a series of glimpses into the past. There isn't going to be much in the way of an arcing storyline...it's just meant to more fully flesh out the characters we all know and love. I'm mostly having fun with it, although I hope to touch on some of the things I've personally wondered about the history of our favorite heroes. If there's something in particular you'd like me to explore, let me know! Anyway, I hope the lack of a sound plot doesn't hamper your reading experience at all. And who doesn't love little Alistair? Enjoy - I know I am. :-)_

* * *

They skidded to a halt as a groomsman ran by, shouting for assistance. The boy grabbed Lyra's hand and yanked her into the shelter of a nearby low wall. They crouched, waiting and watching, and then it occurred to Lyra to ask why they were hiding.

"Carriage coming," the boy said tersely, and Lyra accepted this without further question. They crouched there in the heat of the day for another moment before the sounds of wheels rattling over the cobblestones reached their ears, and then the carriage rolled up, turning the yard into a bustle of activity and running servants. Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde appeared a moment later, and the boy ducked back a bit more. Lyra watched in fascination to see who would come out of the splendid looking carriage.

The door opened, and a golden young man jumped out, a wide smile on his face. He threw his arms around Arl Eamon, laughing, and then bowed to Lady Isolde and kissed her fingers.

Lyra and the boy were too far away to hear what was being said, but it was clear even to a small girl that the young, blonde man was much loved, and that Arl Eamon was very glad to see him. The young man reached back to the carriage, and a delicate looking young lady stepped out, her soft fingers wrapped around his, squinting her eyes at the bright light.

"Who are they?" Lyra whispered, and the boy whispered back, "I think that's Prince Cailan."

"He looks older than Fergus," Lyra said.

"Who's Fergus?" the boy asked.

"My big brother," she whispered loudly. The boy's eyes lit up.

"The tall one with the brown hair?" he asked, and she nodded, her eyes on the carriage.

Another man was emerging…older, and bearing a great resemblance to the young, golden man, but his hair was darker, with reddish tones. The boy beside her stiffened, and his hands tightened on the wall. Lyra looked at him in alarm. His face was contorted almost as if he was about to be ill.

"What's the matter? Are you sick?" she whispered, remembering how she'd gotten sick a few months back and her mother had taken care of her. He didn't answer, just stared at the scene before them.

"Should we go get your ma?" she whispered when the boy didn't respond.

He shook his head and muttered, "Don't got one."

Lyra's eyes widened. How could anyone not have a ma? Her attention was captured again as another man exited the carriage…this one looked quite stern, with dark hair and a craggy face. He smiled warmly enough at Arl Eamon, though, and bowed to Lady Isolde. In another few moments all of the adults climbed the stairs and disappeared into the castle. Lyra started to clamber out from behind the wall, but the boy didn't follow, and she turned back and knelt beside him.

"What's the matter?" she asked again, wondering if she should just go get _her_ ma.

He shrugged.

After a moment, Lyra tried again. "Do you still wanna play?"

He shrugged again, and Lyra sighed, disappointed.

"Alistair!" The boy's eyes widened and he scrabbled backward into the corner where the wall met the castle, crouching into the shadow. He was still perfectly visible, and Lyra thought he was being a little silly, trying to hide in plain sight like that.

"Alistair, are you out here?" the voice called again.

"Don't tell her I'm here," he whispered, his eyes apprehensive. Lyra nodded, and skipped out from behind the wall.

A blonde woman in chanter's robes was striding through the yard, looking around. She looked annoyed, and Lyra decided to take matters into her own hands. She ran up to the woman.

"Who are you looking for?" she asked, and the chanter smiled at her.

"Have you seen a little boy, with red hair and brown eyes?" she asked. "He's about so-tall, and wearing plain breeches and homespun."

"No, ma'am," Lyra said. "I haven't seen no-one like that." Lyra purposefully used the double-negative, but she crossed her fingers behind her back...just in case it was still considered lying.

The chanter sighed, and gave Lyra a distracted smile as she hurried out of the yard. Lyra watched her go, and then ran back behind the wall.

"She's gone," she said, and the boy relaxed. Lyra took his hand and tugged.

"Come _on_," she said, and he allowed her to pull him toward the armory.

.oOo.

"Is the boy here, Eamon?" Maric asked, naked enthusiasm in his tone, and Eamon ran a hand through his hair.

"He's supposed to be at lessons with Chanter Sarah right now, but I'm afraid he's run off again," the arl apologized. Maric nodded, a slightly disappointed look on his face.

"I hear he's doing well." Maric looked casual enough, but a hint of longing in his voice belied his feelings, and Eamon nodded.

"He's bright and healthy. Isolde has suggested to me that we send him to Denerim, to be schooled in the chantry…what say you to that, Maric?"

The king considered. "I suppose concessions should be made for the future…"

"He may take an interest in the Maker. Or, if religious contemplation is not what he desires, he could become a Templar," Loghain suggested. "It's by no means a bad life…and there are vows he would need to take, to be sure that no unexpected… problems… are created."

"Loghain, he's only a boy," Maric laughed, and Loghain's eyes hardened.

"Boys become men, my liege. It is never too soon to begin thinking of the future," Loghain said. "Didn't we do just that when we betrothed _our _two children, years ago?"

"I suppose you're right…" Maric mused. "Very well, then. Have him sent to the chantry in Denerim. I'll keep a bit of an eye on him while he's there."

"Very good, your Majesty," Eamon said. "I'll have him sent soon after the wedding."

"If you'd prefer, we can take him with us when we leave Redcliffe," Maric said, something like hope behind his eyes. Eamon hesitated, and then Loghain spoke up.

"Maric, it isn't a good idea. The boy shouldn't grow attached to you…it could cause problems." _And if anyone sees him standing next to you, they're likely to make assumptions, _Loghain thought.

Maric sighed. "Very well. But you _will_ let me know when he leaves for Denerim?"

"Of course, your Majesty," Eamon said, and then Cailan and Anora entered the room, having cleaned up a little after their long trip. Anora was looking around her with interest as they approached.

"Redcliffe is beautiful, Arl Eamon," Anora said. "This is quite a large holding, is it not?" Her eyes darted around the hall as Cailan laughed.

"Anora's always interested in finding out about the places we visit," Cailan said. "Sometimes I think _she_ should have been the heir to the throne, and not me!"

"Well, she'll make you an excellent queen, then," Eamon said with a smile. "And when will the two of you be joined in the Maker's eyes?" Cailan grinned, and Anora smiled as well…perhaps a bit less widely.

"Not this week," Maric smiled. "This week belongs to you and Isolde." He clapped Eamon on the back, and Loghain's eyes darkened slightly. He had made clear his feelings about the orlesian noblewoman marrying one of the most powerful men in the kingdom so soon after the nearly age-long orlesian occupation of Ferelden…but Maric had pushed his warning comments aside, saying that he was jumping at shadows.

.oOo.

Throughout the day, more and more noble families rolled in, and the castle bustled with activity. Rendon Howe and his three children arrived late in the afternoon, by which time nearly everyone else was already there. Eamon's wedding was the social event of the year, and no one was willing to miss it.

Alistair and Lyra snuck down out of the castle yard and to the field nearby where the tourney was being prepared for, and watched the men and horses. They were careful to stay out of the way, since neither one wanted to be caught. There wasn't much talk between them beyond "Look at that!" and "Come here!" and "Let's pretend that…" In the manner of lonely children everywhere, they had found a temporary friend in each other, and it didn't matter who they were or what existed beyond the next moment.

As the afternoon wore on they were joined by more children, and then more, and soon they were running about like a pack of puppies. Alistair was having the time of his life…with Lyra's easy acceptance of him and her natural leadership of the others, no one was questioning his right to be there, and for the first time ever, he was able to relax and simply enjoy being a kid.

"You lot go hide, and the rest of us'll find you after we count," Lyra was saying, and a group of children began scattering.

"Close your eyes!" Lyra shouted, and then began leading the count. Childish voices joined in as they made their way to thirty, and then Lyra called for them to begin the hunt. It was the most fun Alistair had had all year, and he hoped the week wouldn't end too soon.

The game came to a laughing conclusion, and they were all rather breathless with running when two newcomers caught everyone's attention. A dark-haired boy looking to be about ten or eleven and a pretty, dark-haired girl of perhaps thirteen were crossing the field, dressed in finery unbecoming of a good roll in the mud. After hours of outdoor play, some of the children looked as though they might need a sound scrubbing before they could truly be identified as children again.

"Lyra," the boy said by way of greeting.

"Thomas," she said, scowling at him. Thomas Howe was _not_ one of her favorite people. They saw each other fairly regularly, and being close to the same age had meant they were forced to play together, much to their mutual chagrin. Thomas' sister Delilah wrinkled her nose at the younger girl in her breeches and dirt-smeared shirt, smoothing her fine pink dress.

"What are you playing?" Thomas said. "Some baby game, I bet."

"Hide and find," another girl spoke up. "Want to play?"

"Hide and find is a stupid game," Thomas said, and Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Let's play knights and bandits. I'll be the head of the knights, and _you_," he pointed at Alistair, "can be the head of the bandits."

"What do the bandits do?" Alistair asked, somewhat troubled by the other boy's tone, and the look on Lyra's face.

"The bandits steal and rob and loot and pillage, and the knights have to stop them."

"What's pillaging?" another boy said, and Delilah spoke up.

"Thomas, don't get dirty. Father won't be pleased if your tunic gets messed," she said in a bossy voice.

"Shut up, 'Lilah," he said, and she flounced off, not interested in joining their games.

"Whoever wants to play knights and bandits with Thomas, go with him. I want to keep playing hide and find," Lyra announced. "Anybody want to play with me?"

"I will," Alistair said quickly, and Thomas stepped up to him.

"You're supposed to be one of my bandits."

"I don't wanna be a bandit," he said, and Thomas scowled.

"Come on, Alistair," Lyra said. "Anybody else who wants to play hide and find, follow us." She began moving purposefully off of the field, and most of the children followed. Thomas was dismayed by the departing crowd, and ran after them.

"You can't follow _her_," he said. "She's just a whiny little baby."

"Am not, Thomas!" Lyra said. "_You're_ the baby."

"I'm older than you. You prob'ly still wet the bed," he said smugly, referencing a humiliating instance of the previous summer that Lyra would really have rather forgotten.

"Do NOT!" she cried, her cheeks burning with anger and embarrassment.

"Your mother probably has to feed you herself. Can you talk yet, little baby? Can you-"

"Don't talk to her like that," Alistair said.

"What's it to you?" Thomas said, his tone derisive. "You in love or somethin'?"

"No!" Alistair said hotly.

Lyra pushed her way forward to stand before Thomas, her small chin thrust upward defiantly. "Nobody wants you here, Thomas. Go 'way. Thomas crossed his arms.

"Shut up, Cousland. You're just a baby. Can you even walk yet?"

"I'm _no_ baby!" Lyra cried out.

"You're the biggest baby here. Why are we listening to her, anyway?" Thomas sniped.

Alistair shoved Thomas, and Thomas shoved him back. Lyra joined in, blessedly forgetting about the wooden sword shoved through her waistband, or perhaps things would have gotten even worse than they did. As it was, it was only seconds until the three children were scuffling like pups, shouting and rolling in the dirt and doing their best to beat each other senseless. The children around them formed a circle, hollering and cheering, and some of the girls began to cry. Delilah Howe went running to the field, and it was only a moment later that several adults arrived to pull them off of each other.

"What is the meaning of this?" Bryce Cousland wrestled his daughter into submission, and Lyra struggled in his grasp, wanting another shot at Thomas. Her hair was readily unbraiding itself, and her lip was swelling and split where she had taken a boot to the face. Alistair went pale, and shuffled his feet, guilt parading itself across his face and a large bruise darkening his cheek. Thomas's nose was bloody, and a long scratch on one cheek was puffing up. His fancy tunic was torn, and grass stains marred his breeches.

"Thomas, you will tell us _at once._" Rendon Howe's voice brooked no argument. Thomas sniveled.

"He started it," Thomas gestured to Alistair and wiped at his nose. "I was just _defending_ myself."

"Alistair did _not! _Thomas was being mean to all of us! He called me a baby!" Lyra cried. Alistair was silent.

Rendon and Bryce looked at each other, and then another voice caught their attention.

"Trouble with the children?"

Alistair's eyes shot downward as King Maric strode over to investigate the tussle. He peered at Alistair, but the boy refused to look up, staring at the dirt below. His small feet kicked at a clump of grass, and Maric's heart twanged in longing. The boy wouldn't even _look_ at him.

"With your leave, your Majesty," Bryce murmured, and Maric gestured quickly, not wanting to interrupt.

"None of us saw what happened," Bryce said. "But all three of you were clearly fighting, so I think it's only fitting that all three of you be punished."

"I think that's fair," Rendon said, and Maric nodded slightly.

Lyra's eyes flashed, but she said nothing, and Bryce took both his daughter and Alistair by the hands and led them back to the castle, followed by Rendon and Thomas. Maric watched them go, a strange, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He turned back to the field, but his interest in the tournament preparations had ended. The other children broke up quickly, seeking other entertainment, and Maric watched as some of them sought their parents.

As he usually did when this mood came over him, he found himself thinking of Fiona…where she might be, what she might be doing, and whether or not she realized how quickly their son was growing up.

.oOo.

"He started it, ma, I _swear_," Lyra said with difficulty as Eleanor dabbed at Lyra's fat lip. Alistair was seated nearby, a poultice pressed to his cheek. Thomas was across the room, being tended by one of Arl Eamon's maids.

"And you finished it," Eleanor said, and guided Lyra's hand to hold the cloth in place next to her lip. She moved over to the red-headed boy and pulled the poultice away, inspecting his bruised cheek. He submitted meekly to her ministrations, his eyes solemn.

When Alistair needed help, normally it was Gert, the cook who saw to his small hurts. As she had been a friend of his mother's, she was willing to look after him to a small degree, but just now Gert was overseeing the preparation of dinner for several hundred people, and had less than no time for an eleven-year old boy. So Eleanor Cousland had taken pity on him, and he was drinking in the feeling of being cared for by someone who wasn't impatient or harried. Eleanor dipped a cloth into warm water and gently daubed his cheek, wiping away the sticky serum left behind by the poultice. She unscrewed a small jar of ointment and began smoothing it onto his cheek as she spoke to her rough-and-tumble daughter.

"Lyra, you_ cannot_ use your fists to settle an argument. I'm afraid you're going to spend tomorrow in your room, young lady."

"No! No, ma, please-" Lyra sounded horrified, and Alistair's stomach flopped in sympathy.

"_Yes,_ Lyra. Not another word or it'll be two days," Eleanor said as she began bandaging Alistair's cheek. "You've got to learn to control that temper, sweetheart. If a day indoors doesn't do it…" she sighed. "I don't know _what_ will." She heard telltale sniffling behind her, and shut her eyes. It hurt, a lot, to make her daughter cry. She smoothed the bandage onto Alistair's cheek, and then planted a kiss on his other cheek and used the rag to clean his face and hands a bit more as she listened to Lyra's small, despairing sounds.

"There. You're all set, my dear. Try to keep that on for the rest of the night, alright?" Eleanor said with a smile, and Alistair nodded and hopped off the bench. He lingered for a moment, and then found his courage and spoke up.

"Um…would it be okay if I stayed? With Lyra, I mean…for awhile?" he asked, and Eleanor considered. The poor boy looked so lonely. She knew who he was – Eamon's ward, Alistair. There were rumors that the boy was Eamon's get, but seeing him up close now made Eleanor wonder. The boy looked like Maric, and Cailan, although less so. Alistair and Maric were practically two of a kind…and Rowan _had_ been Eamon's sister.

_He has compassion,_ Eleanor thought, touched that he should think of Lyra's feelings. For a moment, the politician in her made an appearance, over and above the mother. _And who knows what the future may hold…_

"Certainly, Alistair," she said with a friendly smile, and Alistair sat beside Lyra on the bench. Lyra was sniffling, tears trickling down her cheeks as she contemplated an entire day spent in her room.

"I'll be back in a few minutes to take you to your room, Lyra," Eleanor said. "You'll have dinner there tonight, and afterward you'll go right to bed." Lyra let loose another sob, and Eleanor's heart broke a little more, but she was hoping that a severe enough punishment would stay with the girl long enough to finally make an impression.

Eleanor gathered her bandages and ointments and moved off, leaving them together in the small room. Thomas and the maid had left sometime before, and so the room was empty but for the two children.

Lyra's sobs were soft and pitiful, and Alistair felt awkward. He wanted to help Lyra feel better somehow. He considered, and then scooted himself closer to her and put one arm around her shoulders. She turned to him and began wailing on his shoulder, opening herself up to the closest source of comfort.

Lyra was used to love. When she was hurt, someone nearby offered succor….this was simple, the order of the world, and just plain the way it should be. For Alistair, things were not nearly as simple. He had observed men comforting women in this manner, but to have a girl actually sobbing on his shoulder was a bit disconcerting. He kept at it bravely, though, and after a moment Lyra sat up and rubbed her eyes, sniffling.

"Are you okay?" Alistair said, and Lyra nodded.

"Tomorrow will be awful," she whimpered, her swollen lip making talking difficult. Alistair nodded, not sure what else to do. She was right; it _would _be. He had spent more than a few days in confinement himself for various offenses, and it was nothing short of the worst thing _ever_.

"Can you read?" he asked, and Lyra nodded.

"There's some books I could bring you…if you want. To pass the time," he offered, and Lyra wiped her nose on her sleeve.

"Okay," she said, her voice sounding a little stronger. Alistair hesitated, and then spoke again.

"D'you think your ma would let me spend some of the day with you? I'm 'sposed to be punished for fighting too," Alistair said. Lyra shrugged.

"We could ask, I guess," she said. "But we wouldn't be allowed to play." She touched her lip with hesitant fingers, and then worked her tongue along the swelling. It felt, and tasted, funny.

"I know," Alistair said. "Chanter Sarah will make me do lessons tomorrow. Maybe… we could do them together."

Lyra sniffled again, and her sleeve saw more use. Alistair swung his legs on the bench.

.oOo.

"He looks like Maric, Bryce."

"And?" Bryce said, pulling his socks off. Eleanor had long since tucked Lyra into bed, and had given Alistair permission to spend some time with Lyra on the morrow – on the condition that Chanter Sarah would work with both of them, doing sums and letters.

"_And_…do you think it's possible that he's Maric's?" Eleanor stepped out of her gown and hung it up gently, intending to wear it again the following day after it had been brushed out. She undid her breastband and pulled her nightgown over her head, then freed her hair from its constraints and drew her comb through her long tresses as they continued to speak. She was beginning to gray, and it bothered her more than a little…she wasn't even forty yet.

"If he is, he's ill-gotten," Bryce said bluntly. "Rowan's been gone for fifteen years or so."

"But think, Bryce. If anything happens to Cailan, Maric will need another heir. And he and Lyra are very close in age…"

"Matchmaking, Eleanor? Lyra is eight years old!"

"And she's a _Cousland_," Eleanor said, drawing the comb through her hair.

"Yes…and I want her to marry for love, no matter who she chooses. Of course I'd prefer if the lad came from a good family, but if she ends up choosing a hedge knight or a dairy farmer I'll be just as pleased," Bryce said firmly, and Eleanor looked at him in horror.

"A _dairy farmer? _You're not serious," she said, scandalized. Bryce chuckled.

"If I had been a dairy farmer, would you have married me, my darling?" he teased, and Eleanor smiled, and then began to laugh, remembering their own courtship.

"Well….when you put it _that_ way…" she said, and then sighed in amusement. "My parents would have disowned me, and we would have raised cows together, I suppose." Bryce stepped up behind his wife's back and slipped his arms around her waist as she began to section her hair for overnight braids.

"Of course, I don't seriously hope she chooses a dairy farmer," Bryce said. "And if this Alistair turns out to be Maric's, or if he's simply an orphan that Eamon took pity on…well. Let's leave the future to itself, and worry about the present, shall we?"

Eleanor nodded, conceding that it was altogether just a bit too unlikely that all of those potentials should line themselves up in just such a manner. First, for Alistair to actually be Maric's son, and then for something to happen to Cailan, and then for Alistair and Lyra to actually marry…well, it had been pleasant enough to daydream of her small, headstrong daughter ruling Ferelden one day.

"Cheer up, Eleanor…" Bryce said with a grin. "Perhaps something will happen to Anora, and Cailan will take an interest in Lyra…in ten years."

Eleanor had to admit that it was infinitely more likely than the scenario she had imagined.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: The rating on the story has officially changed. Nothing too graphic, but it's definitely not rated "K" anymore._

* * *

Lyra and Alistair sat at a small table, vellum and graphite sticks scattered in front of them as they listened to Chanter Sarah's history lecture. Lyra's gaze went to the window, and Alistair nudged her as the chanter's eyes narrowed.

Outside, full preparations for Summerday were underway…incredible smells were drifting in on the wind as the entire village baked and cooked in order to provide enough food to last for several days. Alistair knew that Gert was busier than a fiend in the kitchens. She'd barely given him his customary bowl of porridge this morning before she had gone back to bullying the rest of the kitchen staff into working harder and quicker. Alistair had eaten quickly and gotten out, not wanting to catch any of her wrath as it flew through the hot kitchen.

He had dawdled around all morning, wanting to go down into the field and play with the other children, but nervous about doing so without Lyra there. Alistair didn't go to school with the village children, and there weren't any others in the castle that would play with him. The servants who had children discouraged interaction because of his status as Eamon's ward, and not many nobles brought their children on state visits. When they did, their parents were usually quick to keep them away. As a result, Alistair had had very few playmates in his life, and without the small girl's easy acceptance and confident leadership he felt rather lost. He didn't like the idea of running into Thomas Howe again, either.

So he spent the morning tossing a ball against the wall of the castle, and then when Chanter Sarah arrived for afternoon lessons he dragged her upstairs to Lyra's room, where Eleanor explained the situation. Chanter Sarah was more than happy to have another pupil, and the two children spent the afternoon listening to lectures and writing an essay about the evils of fighting and the merits of good decorum. Lyra was bored absolutely to tears by the time the sky was beginning to fade orange and pink, and the noises from the village were culminating into something that promised excitement. Chanter Sarah gathered Alistair and their supplies and left the room, and she ran to the window to feast her eyes on the activities below.

Eleanor watched the small boy leaving with Chanter Sarah, and decided that her daughter had suffered enough. She'd been an angel all day, and so Eleanor decided to let Lyra out early for good behavior. It _was_ Summerday, after all, and it would be a shame for the girl to miss all of the activities that happened after the sun went down. She entered the room and broke the news to her daughter, whose eyes lit up with fierce joy. Lyra hurtled herself into her mother's arms, covering her face with kisses. Eleanor couldn't help but laugh at her daughter's exuberance.

"I'll be so good, Ma. Promise," Lyra said. "No more fighting, even if Thomas rubs mud in my hair again!"

"Very well," Eleanor smiled. "But if there's even a smidgeon of trouble…" she let the words trail off meaningfully, and Lyra's sunny face went solemn.

"_Promise_, Ma," she said. Eleanor kissed her cheek, and Lyra scampered out the door, calling to Alistair. The boy's face lit up as she came charging down the hall, and the two of them were downstairs and running out to the field less than a minute later. There was much to do, and Lyra was determined to squeeze every ounce of fun out of the next several hours. They ate, ran, jumped, played, and twirled themselves into exhaustion in the soft green grass, eventually falling down to lie on their backs and stare up at the brilliance of the night sky. Alistair pointed out the constellations he'd learned from Chanter Sarah, and Lyra yawned, eventually curling up beside the boy and falling asleep in the warm, sweet summer air. He was moments behind her, and Eleanor found them later, sleeping as soundly as only children can after spending their energy completely.

.oOo.

"I want you to talk with Eamon," Eleanor said to her husband that night as she was preparing for bed. "I'd like to offer to foster Alistair at Highever."

Bryce looked up in surprise from the book he was reading. "You want to _foster_ him?" Eleanor nodded firmly. He closed the book and set it aside, his face growing serious.

"Eleanor…if you want to have another child, it's not too late…"

"Don't be silly, Bryce. I don't think I could have another if I wanted to – we were afraid when Lyra came along unexpectedly, and I'm much too old now. But that isn't the point." She lowered herself to sit beside him, and took his hand.

"You should have seen him in the room with her, Bryce," she said. "Lyra was more focused and better behaved than I've ever seen her. And the boy is charmed with Fergus…he could use some friends, and it wouldn't hurt our standing if he really _is _Maric's son."

"Politics, Eleanor," Bryce sighed. "And if he's _not_ Maric's son?"

"Then you gain another loyal knight for your household. Rory Gilmore is being trained already, along with three or four other boys – it wouldn't be difficult for Alistair to settle in. He's so starved for affection…you should have seen him yesterday when I was tending his hurts. The poor thing looked as if he'd never been spoken kindly to in his life."

Bryce considered. "It's no small thing you're asking me, dear. And we don't know what Eamon wants for him…" he took his wife's hand and squeezed it, and Eleanor's eyes pleaded.

"_Eamon _might not know what he wants for him. If you make the proposal, at _least_ he can consider it," Eleanor said, putting as much reason into her argument as she could.

"It means that much to you?" Bryce asked, his eyes hesitant. Eleanor nodded. Bryce rubbed the back of his neck and struggled to find the right words that would both placate his wife and leave him an out from a potentially bad situation.

"Look, Eleanor, let's not make any decisions right now. I can appreciate your intentions, but let's just observe him for the rest of the week, and then I can talk to Eamon." Bryce kissed his wife's cheek, and Eleanor huffed in annoyance and crossed her arms at him. Bryce began to laugh.

"And you wonder where Lyra gets it," he chuckled.

.oOo.

The moon crested over Redcliffe, and eventually only the most serious revelers remained in the square. Most of the nobility had returned to the castle by midnight, although not everyone was in bed yet.

"You are a _minx_," Cailan said playfully. Anora smiled in response, and tapped her finger on the map on the desk, trying to recall him to the task at hand.

"Cailan, be serious for three seconds, please. The Bannorn is experiencing drought. Your father is handling the problem, but—"

The prince groaned, and came to stand behind her. He slid his hands around her waist and moved to press his lips against the smooth skin of her neck, and she ducked sideways to avoid him.

"_Focus_, Cailan," she said, and he sighed, and looked at the map.

"Where are the most fertile areas of the Bannorn?" she asked, and he jabbed randomly at the map, not even feigning interest.

"Not even close! Cailan, honestly…you'll be the king someday. You _must_ take all these things into account—"

"It's _Summerday,_ Anora," he complained. "A holiday that celebrates life and love, and here we sit, studying _maps_. Do you know what most of the people of Redcliffe are doing right now?"

"Sleeping?" Anora arched a perfect brow.

"Not exactly." Cailan drew her hair aside and breathed in the scent of her skin, freshened by lilacs and powder. She stiffened, but he was too far gone to notice.

"When are you going to give in to me, Anora?" he murmured, and turned her around. She pasted a bright smile onto her face before he could notice her discomfort.

"My prince, we aren't married yet. There are _proprieties _that must be adhered to…"

"Damn that," Cailan whispered, and drew her in to kiss her deeply. Her response was automatic, sliding her hands around his neck and matching his fervor. His arms tightened around her waist, and he groaned, feeling her body pressed so near to his. She ended the kiss a moment later in an attempt to control the fallout. Cailan was clearly disappointed.

"I _love_ you, Anora," he whispered, his brows furrowing. "I really don't see why we can't be married _now_. We're adults –"

"_Adults_? You think eighteen and nineteen is adult. Really," she laughed, her mind racing to put him off. She knew she would have to marry him eventually, but…

"Yes, I think eighteen and nineteen is adult. Adult enough for _this_," Cailan said. "You grow more beautiful every day, and you're driving me insane! If you're not ready to get married, I understand. We'll wait. But don't keep putting me off…" His eyes pleaded with her. "You have no idea what I feel for you."

_Hormones,_ Anora thought distastefully. She looked back at the map, and inspiration struck.

"Cai, learn the map, and I'll allow…something," she said, and his eyes lit up.

"What kind of something?" he grinned, and she grimaced inwardly at the keen look that covered his features.

"Learn the map, and find out," she teased, and wondered how much longer she'd be able to keep this up.

.oOo.

Maric ran his hand over his hair, making it glint with red highlights in the lamplight. Loghain sat nearby, a stern look on his face. The king was trying to get something across, and he finally settled for the simplest words possible, ending his inner struggle to find phrasing that would soften the shock.

"I want to make it official, Loghain. I want to claim him." He glanced up at Loghain's blue eyes, which hardened at his words.

"Maric, you _can't_," Loghain said. Maric glowered at him.

"Why not? The heir and the spare, right? Why wouldn't the Landsmeet accept him?" Maric jumped up and began to pace. Loghain sighed, and rubbed his forehead as Maric continued to speak.

"I really thought I could do it, Loghain. I really thought I could leave him here, and just keep my hands out of his life…but seeing him now—I want my son," Maric said. "He doesn't have to know about his mother. We can keep that a secret—"

"He may not even survive past thirty!" Loghain exploded. "He may have been Tainted by that damned knife ear—"

Maric strode forward and seized Loghain's collar, his eyes blazing. "Don't you ever, _ever_ speak that way of Fiona! She was a hero….the Grey Wardens have more honor than you or I will _ever_ have. They give their _lives_ for Ferelden."

"So do soldiers, my liege," Loghain said, unimpressed with this bout of passion. Maric glared at him for another moment, and then let him go and continued to pace.

"You're not supposed to know about the Taint," Maric muttered. "I was a fool to tell you. Fiona wasn't even supposed to tell _me_ about that."

"What do you think would happen if Alistair's parentage were discovered?" Loghain challenged, and Maric ignored him, his eyes on the rug as he walked.

"Have you considered it at all, my lord?" Loghain continued, watching Maric work out his demons. "The child of a Grey Warden? They're not supposed to involve themselves with politics._You_ are the one who allowed the Wardens back into the country. Not everyone agreed with that decision. It took a lot to gain the support for that. And now you've managed to get yourself a child – a _son_ – on one of the Wardens. How will that look? What will the Landsmeet think of _that_? They'll think the Wardens are trying to take over, and that you're in league with them. That they're _using you._"

Maric's eyes closed. Loghain leaned back in his chair, watching his king's reaction. _He knows this already,_ Loghain thought. _He just needs me to say the words._

"Then we'll keep the secret. We can continue the story that I told Eamon, that his mother was a serving girl."

"Maric, you're a damned fool," Loghain said. "The Landsmeet won't accept him, and you know it as well as I. Illegitimate children are _not_ welcomed…you _know_ that! You'll only put yourself in a weakened position. Cailan is grown, and he's engaged to Anora. Let _them_ provide the spare. Let them be married."

Maric shook his head. "Cailan isn't ready for marriage, and he's _certainly_ not ready to be a father."

"Is anyone ever?" Loghain said. "Were you? Was I? He'll learn. Maric…" he stood, and stepped in front of his old friend, who was threatening to wear a track in the rug.

"Cailan is your heir. This is what's been established, and there is nothing wrong with that plan. Don't try and change things now," Loghain said.

Maric dropped helplessly back into a chair. Loghain watched him for a moment and then began to excuse himself, hoping the subject was closed, but Maric cut him off.

"Then at least let him come to the palace. He can be fostered with me there. He doesn't have to be my heir – but let me have him. Let me have the son I want," Maric said, and Loghain's heart iced over.

"You _have_ a son. Cailan. Be _his_ father first," Loghain snarled, and struggled to rein in his temper.

He had watched Maric's oldest boy grow, seeing Queen Rowan in his eyes and on his face…the woman he had loved, who he had forced to return to Maric and honor their betrothal for the good of the country. _He should have been mine_, Loghain thought bitterly._ Cailan should have been _my_ son, and Rowan my wife._

Maric's eyes pressed shut, and then he laughed, a harsh, broken, hopeless sound.

"He wouldn't even look at me, Loghain…." Maric whispered. "He's my _son_…"

"All a man has to do to get a son is spend a few moments with a woman," Loghain said. "You haven't raised him, or spent time with him. Eamon _has_ done all of that."

"It can't be too late," Maric said, and ran his hand over his hair again, making it stand on end. "There must be a way..."

"He may be your son…but you're not his father," Loghain said. "Let him go, Maric. Be the _king._"

The king of Ferelden nodded slowly, and hid his face in his hands.

.oOo.

Loghain returned to his rooms and poured himself a drink, needing to forget about the conversation he'd just had with Maric. He downed it, and then poured another finger of whiskey into his cup, moving to the window and opening it to let the cool breezes of the night into the stuffy room. He sipped, thinking of the king's strange obsession with Alistair.

_It's seeing the boy here that's done it,_ Loghain thought. _It'll get worse when he's sent to Denerim. Perhaps…_ he considered, and threw back his second drink, much faster than was good for him. He moved to the table and poured a third, then took the bottle with him and sat in a chair before the alcohol hit his system hard and made him stagger. It was a fine malt, and he suspected he'd be finishing the bottle.

Thoughts of Rowan snaked through his mind, and he remembered her touch, her scent, the way her eyes had pleaded with him as he pushed her away…

_Had to be done_. His thoughts were fuzzy as he recalled his part in the king's marriage. _Rowan and Maric were betrothed. Had to be married…to unite the country._ He took a long pull of the whiskey. _Damn Maric. Couldn't appreciate her, couldn't see she was worth ten of that elf…Katriel…_ He took another pull of his drink, and laughed aloud at the next thought that came to him.

_And then Fiona. The man has a type,_ Loghain sniggered.

He thought of his duty to Ferelden, and was resentful for a moment of everything he'd done, that he continued to do. _Should've been born higher,_ he thought. _If I sat the throne, I'd rule well. Better than Maric. Better than Cailan…_ he thought of his daughter, and his heart softened at the thought of Anora becoming the queen. _She's Cailan's only hope_, he mused with some amusement, the alcohol affecting his thought patterns. _My smart girl. Need to get them married… _He set the glass down, his head spinning.

_We will hold this country._ His thoughts were full of determination. _Orlais be damned to hell._

His steward found him a few hours later, passed out in the chair, the bottle of whiskey empty on the floor. The man prepared him for bed and shut the door behind him, leaving Loghain to snore beneath his blankets until the morning.

* * *

_A/N: Credit to KnightOfHolyLight for the idea of Alistair being fostered at Highever! Eleanor loved the idea, what can I say? Also, I hope this clears up any confusion that might have sprung up about Maric's easy give-in about sending Alistair to the chantry. Love and kisses! ~Eve_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Now we get into some other characters. I'm filling up with ideas, and I'm actually getting really, really excited about telling these stories. _

_Today, we look at Isolde. I know that most people hate her with a passion that's a little scary, but I figure she's got a really intriguing backstory...and after looking up Isolde and Eamon as main characters, there's actually only one fanfic written about them. I haven't read it because I don't want to influence my own ideas, but I think someday I will write the story of Isolde and Eamon. Someday soon, likely. For now, this acts as an overview, and I hope it explains some of why Isolde might be the way she is. _

* * *

"Do you think Eamon will like me?" Isolde asked, her worried eyes creasing in the reflecting glass.

"How could he not? You are stunning," Gwena simpered, and adjusted Isolde's veil for the third time. "It is too bad your father isn't here to give you away," the woman said in a careless tone, her words the slightest bit cutting. Isolde bit her lip.

"I wish he was," she said. "I miss them."

"They miss you, as well, dear. Being disowned…how do you manage?" Gwena's voice was light, but Isolde heard the implied insult behind the words, and her mouth twisted.

"Quite well, thank you. But Gwena, let us speak of _you_ for a moment. Do you think _you'll_ ever remarry? It must be difficult, no? Knowing you have so few good years left to provide children to a husband… " Isolde asked. Gwena's eyes narrowed slightly, and Isolde felt somewhat mollified.

Gwena was a friend, and Isolde didn't have many of them…being from Orlais and marrying Arl Eamon was two strikes against her. She was willing to put up with Gwena's snarky attitude in exchange for female companionship. And it really wasn't that different than anything she'd dealt with in Orlais...they wrote the book on intrigue, and Gwena was practically a breath of fresh air.

Isolde checked her reflection again, and pinched her cheeks once more to turn them pink. She tried to relax her eyes, seeing the beginnings of wrinkles forming on her still youthful face. It troubled her, losing her youth…but she supposed it happened to everyone. Teyrna Cousland was already greying. Isolde's hair was still lush and honey-colored, for which she was more than grateful.

Isolde Desmarais was born the younger daughter of an up-and-coming noble family in Val Royeaux that had been playing "the game" of nobility as long as she could remember. The Orlesian occupation of Ferelden had supplied many families with the opportunity to raise their standing, and when King Meghren had offered the arling of Redcliffe to anyone who could hold it for more than a month, Isolde's father Marcel Desmarais had leapt at the chance. The family traveled to Ferelden and moved into Castle Redcliffe, much to the displeasure of the locals.

Isolde was a dreamy, idealistic youth. She was thrilled at the chance to leave boring Val Royeax to live in Ferelden, and viewed the endeavor as an adventure of the best kind. Her eleven-year old self thrilled to the romance and intrigue inherent in such an undertaking, and her older brother Rene agreed with her wholeheartedly. The two spent the month-long journey whispering and daydreaming about the adventures they would have in Ferelden. Their mother Gabrielle was less enthusiastic about leaving the glittering city of Val Royeaux to live in what she deemed "fithy wilderness", but Redcliffe was beautiful in Isolde's eyes, and she fell in love with the land. And she couldn't help but admire the spirit of the Fereldans; they were so very determined to wriggle out from under Orlais's thumb.

It was a tumultuous few years that followed, but Marcel did what others had not been able to – he survived numerous assassination attempts and held Redcliffe in the name of Emperor Florian. As the holders of one of the most powerful arlings in Ferelden, things were looking up for the Desmarais family, and they climbed higher in the game.

Isolde expected to be sent back to Orlais to attend a ladies' finishing school, but the world began to change when she was fourteen. The rebels had a new commander, and Orlais began losing ground. After nearly an age of occupation, Orlais actually began to grow nervous that they might lose Ferelden, and every Orlesian noble was put on alert. Her family began planning an exit from the country if things should go badly. Marcel and Gabrielle were away at a meeting on the night she met Eamon Guerrin – a meeting that happened entirely by chance…a meeting which would change her life forever.

Isolde was alone in her parents' room when she heard the door open, and as she turned around a hand clapped over her mouth, pushing her up against the wall and warning her to be quiet. Her captor was a handsome young man with reddish-brown hair, and Isolde's heart leapt in fright…and excitement.

The young man was one of the rebels, and for that reason alone she might have been fascinated and charmed by him, but his good looks and the element of danger he carried with him made him beyond delicious to a dreamy, romantic, idealistic girl.

Eamon had slipped past the guards of the castle in an attempt to assassinate Arl Desmarais and his family and reclaim Redcliffe for Ferelden and the Guerrins. It was a move of desperation, and one that likely would have ended with his death had Isolde not been utterly charmed by the bold young man. They ended up speaking at length, and then Isolde smuggled him out of the castle, seeing the entire thing as a quixotic adventure. Two nights later, she received a coded message, and she snuck out of her rooms to meet her would-be lover in the gardens of Redcliffe Castle.

Isolde didn't just fall…she dove head-over-heels into love with Eamon, and he fell just as head-over-heels in love with the beautiful young orlesian girl. The fact that it was her own family that he opposed – and that it was _her_ family that had deposed his – made their romance all the more forbidden, and all the more searing. Isolde was only fourteen, and her paramour eighteen…they were so very young, and impressionable, and filled with romantic ideas of the way the world should be, and this first honey-sweet taste of love altered them both in ways they would take years to fully discover.

They continued to meet and make plans for two years, and then Rowan, Eamon's sister, found out about Isolde. She bluntly told Eamon that he was insane if he thought he could marry an orlesian. With Ferelden's freedom a thing that was barely secured, and Isolde belonging to the very family who had held Redcliffe in Orlais's name, it would be suicide – political and literal. At Rowan's insistence, Eamon ended his relationship with Isolde, and her family fled to Orlais before they could be murdered by rebel forces.

Isolde was heartbroken. She understood logically why they couldn't be together, but it didn't make it easier to bear…she felt cheated of her happy ending, and her sixteen-year old self mutinied. She refused to eat, bathe, or do any of the other things that would make life bearable for those around her, and even her brother Rene couldn't draw a smile from her for months.

Back in Orlais she worsened, and Gabrielle had to put off her entry into the fine finishing school as Isolde would not leave her bed. Six months later, Isolde attempted to escape to Ferelden, intending on throwing herself at Eamon and begging him to take her back – as a concubine, if need be. She was quickly discovered, and a series of locks installed on her door as punishment. She stormed, cried, threw things, and then retreated into a deep depression.

Isolde's parents were mortified. They berated her, threatened her, bribed her, and nothing helped. Isolde locked herself in a shell of isolation, writing in her journals and sometimes playing on her harp. She was convinced that if she tried hard enough, she could die of grief, and leave a beautiful young corpse for her parents to cry over.

Unfortunately, life was not so kind.

Finally, _finally _Isolde seemed to grow up a bit. She began to interact with the outside world again, and attended the fine finishing school her parents had intended for her. She met Gwena Farel while at school, and the two became fast friends. Isolde returned home a proper and refined lady, aged twenty-one, and her mother began parading her before nobleman after nobleman. But nothing ever worked out. Isolde was quiet, refined, graceful, and beautiful – and completely uninterested. When the young men attempted to grow serious, she grew cold and put them off. She intended to spend her life alone rather than with someone who was not Eamon Guerrin, although her parents had no inkling that she was still suffering from love lost.

When Isolde passed her twenty-fifth birthday, her father gave her an ultimatum – marry, or find a trade. He refused to keep his willful spinster daughter at home any longer, and Isolde took up residence with her friend Gwena, who had married a successful cloth merchant by the name of Dubois. She sewed and helped with running the household, and Gwena treated her somewhat like a poor relative…but it was better than being at home with her judgmental parents. She spent three years with Gwena, and then…

She received a letter. From Eamon.

He missed her. He loved her. He wanted her.

She packed her bags.

Gwena was properly horrified that Isolde would leave Orlais and return to a backwater country like Ferelden, where they slept with their _dogs_ and wore _boots_ every day, even to the chantry. Isolde didn't care. She had been dreaming of being with Eamon for half of her life, and now that he wanted her, she didn't intend to waste another second. She found passage to Ferelden with a merchant who specialized in Mabari, and spent a month traveling to Redcliffe. She showed up on Eamon's doorstep bedraggled and worn out, smelling like a dog and feeling like a limp rag.

Their reunion was beyond spectacular.

It took several more years to navigate all of the politics involved with marrying an orlesian woman. Old hatreds still ran deep, but Eamon was determined, and now, today, their dreams would finally come true.

Isolde was thirty-one – a woman beyond her prime, a woman who had lived in a fantasy world for longer than she cared to think about. She had loved Eamon her entire life, and to become his wife was the greatest desire of her heart. She had wanted it for so very long, and had gone through hell to get it – and nothing was going to stop her now. Not the letter she had received from her parents last month, stating that if she did this she was no longer a Desmarais. Not the nasty letters from anonymous sources, threatening her life just for being orlesian. Not the whispers, not the stares, not even the rumors that Alistair was Eamon's bastard son, although that one hurt the most of all.

A knock at the door took her attention from the mirror, and she gestured for Gwena to answer it. Her friend sniffed, and flounced toward the door.

Gwena wasn't taking her new position well. She had arrived in Redcliffe several months ago, homeless after her husband was killed in Orlais for fraudulent dealing. Isolde had taken her in, and Gwena had made herself Isolde's lady in waiting. Their social positions had been reversed, and Isolde might have felt sorrier for Gwena if the woman wasn't so very nasty. But she was a friend, and she was from _home_, and so Isolde put up with her haughty attitudes.

"Are you ready?" Maric said from the doorway, and Isolde nodded, and hurried to take his arm. The king of Ferelden was standing in for her absent father and walking her down the aisle.

.oOo.

"Who gives this woman to be wed?" the Revered Mother said.

"The crown gives this woman," Maric said, and a whisper of interest flew from tongue to tongue around the gathered nobility. Maric's stamp of approval on the marriage was the final bit that Eamon needed to legitimize Isolde in Ferelden's eyes…but the whispers made Isolde's face flush, and she wondered if she would _ever_ find acceptance in her love's country.

In the crowd, Lyra wiggled in her seat, and looked around for Alistair. Fergus poked her.

"Be still. It's almost over, Pup," he whispered, and she did her best to quiet her restless body as her mother sniffled into a handkerchief. Other women were crying, too, and Lyra wondered exactly what was so sad about two people getting married.

At the front of the chantry, Bann Teagan was seated beside Alistair, who was watching the ceremony glumly. Isolde didn't _like_ him, and he didn't know why. He had a feeling that things weren't going to get easier.

"Cheer up, lad," Teagan whispered. "Isolde's not such a bad sort."

Alistair didn't answer, but kicked his foot against the leg of the chair in an attempt to vent energy. Small boys were not made to sit so still and be so clean.

The ceremony was completed, and Isolde and Eamon shared their first kiss as husband and wife, arl and arlessa. Applause from the crowd brought a smile to Isolde's lips. Perhaps she was wrong…perhaps not everyone was prepared to hate her.

She and Eamon made their way back down the aisle and stood outside the chantry, where they were surrounded by well-wishers. The people of Redcliffe brought them small gifts – baskets of fruit, a soft wool wrap, a bundle of flowers. The nobility had delivered gifts that were much finer, but Isolde was touched by these small gestures, and she smiled graciously at all of them, her heart filling with happiness at the love that her husband's people displayed for their arl. _And for me,_ she thought. _They cannot hate me now. _

Eamon turned from her side to speak with someone, and Isolde continued to greet the folk who had come to her wedding. She was happy…everything was beautiful, and everyone was kind…

"….orlesian whore," she heard whispered in the crowd, and her heart crashed in her chest. She looked around, trying to see where the slur had come from, but everyone was smiling and Isolde tried to cover her dismay at the ugliness she was hearing.

Lyra Cousland came sprinting out of the chantry, followed by Alistair, and Isolde's lips twisted in distaste as she watched his red-gold head bounce through the crowd. The rumor mill was churning with all of the nobility present, and speculation was high. It seemed to most that Eamon _must_ be the boy's father, and Gwena had told her there was a growing pool over who the boy's mother had been. Bets were even – people were certain Alistair's mother was either a deceased castle servant, or a foreign dignitary.

People could be so stupid.

It made her stomach clench to think of Eamon with another woman. He assured her that Alistair was not his child, but how was she to know, really? It was unrealistic to assume that he'd been celibate all these years – men were different than women. The boy's hair might have a touch more gold in it than Eamon's, but that could just as easily be attributed to the mother. If he wasn't Eamon's, then why was he here?

Oh, Eamon had told her that the boy was Maric's, and that Maric had asked him to keep Alistair. She also knew it was likely true. But the rest of the nobility _did not_, and they were not allowed to know. And that's where the rumors began, and where Isolde held no power at all to rebuff them. Without the truth to arm her, she was left swatting at speculation, and no one believed Eamon would take pity on an orphan out of the kindness of his heart. Some were even whispering that Eamon intended to make the boy his heir – but Isolde was determined to give Eamon a child of their own. It was the one power she had as a woman, and she would be damned if it was taken from her. She wasn't _that_ old – she could bring a child to birth and provide him with the only heir he would need.

Of course, it would help if Alistair were safely out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind.

"My congratulations, Lady Isolde. You look lovely," Eleanor Cousland said, and brushed Isolde's cheek with her lips. The arlessa smiled automatically and thanked her, and then Eleanor leaned close.

"I hope that when Bryce speaks to Eamon, he'll consider our proposal," she said softly, and Isolde's eyes creased in confusion.

"Your proposal?" Isolde asked.

"Yes, regarding Alistair…well, this isn't really the time. We'll speak about it later," Eleanor said, and moved off.

Isolde's eyes darkened. Couldn't she just forget about the bastard boy for one day? It was her _wedding_!

"…I hear she's too old," she heard someone say behind her. She focused on the words, concentrating on singling out the sounds from the general crowd noise.

"…looks young. But…seventeen years since they met." She was only catching bits and pieces. She tried to let it go, but suddenly the voices were clear.

"…pity. Eamon had other opportunities, to be sure. There must be a reason he'd choose an orlesian. Maybe Loghain is right."

Eamon finished his conversation and turned to smile at her, and Isolde tried to return his happy gaze, but her eyes were filling with tears.

"My dearest love…" Eamon brushed her cheek with his fingers. "You aren't crying? On our wedding day? Can it be that you regret marrying an old man, after all?" Their old joke brought a smile to Isolde's lips, but one traitorous drop slid down her cheek, and then Eamon was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief pulled from his sleeve.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You love me, Eamon?" she trembled, and his eyes softened.

"More than my own life," he said softly, and the tears began to pour from her eyes, relief unclenching her stomach.

"Isolde," Eamon said worriedly, and she threw herself into his embrace.

"Alistair…he's going to Denerim, yes?" she whispered, and Eamon nodded as his arms clasped her tight.

"Maric has agreed."

"Thank the Maker," Isolde sighed, and Eamon's arms promised support and love.

The one thing she had craved for seventeen years was hers at last.

Nothing would make her let it go.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: So, I wasn't quite sure where to take this next chapter. I decided perhaps a little bit of everything was in order, since I have a little bit of everything planned for future chapters. Laying some groundwork, as it were. :-) There are so many awesome stories I want to tell...everyone's got a history, and they keep banging around in my brain. For those of you who are waiting for the SEQUEL to TDKS... well, it's firmly in the works. There's been actual writing done on it. No idea yet when publishing will be, but rest assured...the writing has begun, and that can only lead to eventual publishing. :-D _

* * *

Nathaniel and Alfstanna snuck around the corner, hand in hand, hurrying away from the festivities. It was the second day of feasting and games since Isolde and Eamon's wedding ceremony, and after the tourney on the following day, the nobility would return to their homes. The two of them had almost no time left before they would be separated again, and they were hoping for an hour… or more… of uninterrupted privacy.

Nathaniel glanced around, looking for a safe nook where a girl and a boy could spend some time alone without fear of being seen by nosy busybodies with no sense of romance or fun. His eyes lit on the perfect location, and he squeezed Alfstanna's hand.

"There," he said, and pointed to the stables.

"Nathaniel! It's so….common," Alfstanna giggled with girlish delight and squeezed his hand. "I love it."

The two of them hurried across the yard, Alfstanna's full green skirts gathered into her free arm, a loose strand of Nathaniel's dark hair blowing across his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently, and opened the barn door just enough to allow the two of them to slip inside.

Sunlight streamed through cracks in the aging wood, leaving just enough light to make things interesting, and the sweet smell of curing hay and sleepy animals filled their noses. _Perfect_.

Nathaniel pulled Alfstanna into his arms, and their lips met, an unpolished move that nonetheless made their hearts pound with the joy of young love. The moment stretched out, and then Nathaniel drew back to look around.

"Somewhere more private…" he murmured, and tugged Alfstanna toward the ladder leading up to the hayloft. A moment later they tumbled back into the soft straw and lost themselves in each other's arms.

Nathaniel was just working up the courage to try touching Alfstanna a bit more intimately when the barn door swung open, and the two of them froze. Breathless, childish laughter echoed through the barn, and Nathaniel risked a peek over the top of the hayloft.

Lyra Cousland was gesturing for someone to follow her into the barn.

"Come _on,_" she exclaimed. "They'll never find us in here!"

A small boy with red-gold hair skidded through the door behind her, and they ducked behind a haybale, giggling and trying to shush each other.

"Who is it?" Alfstanna murmured, sitting up slightly to glance over the rail. Nathaniel dragged her back down, his eyes imploring her to silence. Alfstanna opened her mouth again, and Nathaniel covered it with his hand. She began to giggle, and he grinned back, and slowly released her. She bit playfully at his fingers.

"She's a bit young for you, in my opinion," Alfstanna whispered. "How old is she, six?"

"Eight," Nathaniel whispered back. His father had been trying to arrange a marriage between Nathaniel and Lyra since the day the girl was born, but thankfully, Bryce Cousland had no interest in making such an arrangement. Nathaniel was just as glad – not only was he eight years older than the girl, but he didn't care for the idea of marrying _just_ to advance himself politically. Unlike his father, Rendon Howe.

"Someone else would suit you better…" Alfstanna purred against his neck, and Nathaniel stifled a groan, took his courage firmly in hand, and brushed his fingers over the girl's breast. She responded by crushing her lips against his, and he felt heat rushing through him.

The barn door opened again, and he heard more voices.

"Maker damned _children_," he swore, and he and Alfstanna stilled themselves.

"They're in here, I know it. I _saw_," a bossy voice said, and Nathaniel's heart stopped beating. _Delilah!_

"Lyra? Alistair?" Maker, it was turning into a regular party. Eleanor Cousland was calling. There was whispering, and then after a moment, Lyra spoke up.

"Yes, ma?" Lyra said, her voice all innocence.

"Delilah tells me you threw mud at her dress. Did you?" Eleanor's tone was stern, and Nathaniel heard small feet shuffling.

_Serves her right,_ Nathaniel thought. Delilah was an awful snob about her clothing.

"Um….yes?" Lyra said, and Eleanor's sigh pervaded the room, as only a mother's sigh can.

"Come then, Lyra. Delilah, if you'll come with us back to the castle, Lyra will make amends."

"I will?" Lyra said, and Alfstanna snickered.

"She's cute," she whispered.

"Adorable. Kiss me," Nathaniel breathed, and she did. Thoroughly.

"What about me, ma'am?" A boy's voice. _The redhead,_ Nathaniel thought belatedly, somewhat distracted by the glory of Alfstanna's tongue.

"You come too, Alistair," Eleanor said, and the barn door drifted shut again a moment later. All was silent, and then a cow mooed, and Alfstanna pulled away.

"You can't marry _her_," Alfstanna said, and Nathaniel's hands grew bolder, lingering on her bodice. The warmth and the softness of what lay beneath was somewhat distracting.

"If it were up to me, I wouldn't," Nathaniel said.

"Why is it so important to your father, anyway?" Alfstanna complained. "Waking Sea is _just_ as nice as Highever, and our family is…well, we don't go back _quite_ as many generations, but…"

"Alfstanna…" Nathaniel brushed her cheek with his fingers. "We're leaving tomorrow. Write to me? We may get to see each other at the Couslands' Satinalia celebration, if your family can come…"

Alfstanna looked down, and drew a breath.

"I'll be sixteen in Harvestmere. We could marry," she whispered, and then looked at him, her heart in her eyes. Nathaniel grew serious, and her fingers sought his. The encounter had been elevated to a whole new level.

"You would have me?" Nathaniel said, and she nodded.

"I…" his mind raced at the implications of what she was offering to him, of the unexpected feelings her proposal roused.

Nathaniel had cared for Alfstanna as long as he could remember. They had seen each other so rarely as the years passed – once a year, maybe, Amaranthine and Waking Sea being on literal opposite ends of the country, and yet each time fate did see fit to bring them together, it was as if no time had passed at all. This last week had seen the beginning of their physical relationship, although as yet they had done nothing more than exchange a few kisses, and now this daring tryst in the hayloft.

"I would need to ask my father," Nathaniel said finally.

"He'll say no," Alfstanna said. "He's so very concerned with your _status_," she spat the word.

"I'm not my father," Nathaniel said. Alfstanna's hand clutched his own.

"Then why ask? Come in Harvestmere," she begged. "We could go away. To Rivain, or Antiva…"

"Are you serious?" Nathaniel laughed. "What would we do in Antiva?"

"You could join the guard. I'd keep house for you."

"Alfstanna…" Thoughts of his father's ire at the idea of such a plan invaded the happy dream she was creating. "Your brother, Irminric – he's being trained as a Templar, isn't he?"

"So?"

"So who's inheriting Waking Sea?"

Her silence was telling.

"I can't leave Amaranthine, and you can't abandon your family," he said gently.

"What about Thomas?_ He_ could inherit Amaranthine," she pointed out. "You would be free to come to Waking Sea, and we could rule there, together. Will you speak to my father? And to yours?"

Nathaniel wavered. In truth, Thomas _was_ much closer in age to Lyra, and there was no reason why his father couldn't make a match between the two of _them_. Nathaniel had only been to Waking Sea once, but he'd loved it…it wasn't that dissimilar to Amaranthine, and the smell of the sea was just like home.

Besides which, anywhere Alfstanna was, Nathaniel was happy to be.

"Write to me," he said again. "If you still wish it, come Satinalia…I'll speak to your father."

Alfstanna captured his face in her hands, and the only witnesses to what followed were a few lazy cows and an old donkey.

.oOo.

"I don't know what to do, Father," Anora said. "He's so childish, and he grows more and more insistent. I don't _want_—"

"You'll do what you must, Anora. For Ferelden." Loghain said, and peered over his paperwork at his daughter's concerned face. "Bed him."

"I…" Anora hesitated, and then looked at the floor. "Yes, Father." She turned to go, and Loghain felt a stab of grief at the slump in her shoulders. He wished it didn't have to be this way…

He closed his eyes, and then turned back to the paper he'd been reading when she came in.

_Emperor Florian is showing signs of instability. There are whisperings that Ferelden is weak, that it would take only a small push to reclaim your country for Orlais. You and I both know this is most ridiculous, but the players in the game ever vie for favor, and the Desmarais family is losing their status with their daughter's defection to Ferelden. Be warned – an assassination is all it would take to topple the throne. It is not as unlikely as you or I might think. ~A Friend_

Loghain rubbed his eyes. The missive meant the same thing it had meant the first three times he had read it, and he liked it no better. The father in him wished he'd never risen to this height.

The General in him set his mouth, and tucked the missive into his pouch. Anora would marry Cailan, and Maric would be removed. Ferelden _would_ be made safe. The General saw what needed to be done, and put plans in motion to make it happen.

If Anora and Cailan found themselves – unexpectedly – expecting the heir that Maric was so sure Cailan was not ready for…

_They _will_ be married._

Loghain stood, and strode out of the office.

He didn't see his daughter in the hallway behind her, her back pressed against the rough stone, her face buried in her hands.

.oOo.

Anora sagged against the wall, allowing herself a moment of weakness before straightening up and moving down the hall. Her stomach was in knots, but she pushed the fear aside and took herself to Cailan's room.

When facing down a fear, there was no time like the present. She pushed open the door and was met with the sight of scattered maps and papers, sticks of graphite on the floor, and crumpled balls of vellum lying haphazardly about.

Cailan wasn't within.

Anora swore to herself and exited the room again, bothered that she should have to go to so much trouble to do something she not only didn't desire but was _afraid_ of.

.oOo.

"This one…this." Cailan's eyes were shining as he pulled the sword from the wall. "It's fantastic. Look at it, Fergus!"

The younger boy looked eagerly on the filigreed weapon. Lyra and Alistair were playing on the other side of the room with a bag of marbles they had gotten from Bryce, and he took a quick glance back at them, fulfilling his duty of watching his sister after her stunt with Delilah Howe and the mud.

"It's awfully fancy. How can anything that looks that pretty hold an edge?" Fergus said, and Cailan took a few swings with it, testing the weight.

"Hmm. Balance feels off. Want a go?" He handed it to Fergus, who swung it gingerly. It didn't feel right to him.

"I think this one must have been made as a reward for some great deed. Maybe from the rebellion," Fergus said, and replaced the blade on the wall. "Not much use, is it?"

"A sword should have function _and_ form," Cailan said. "You've seen my father's blade, have you not?"

"I have. It's a beauty," Fergus said. "Is your father fighting in the melee?"

"No. He says it isn't fair to the others, whatever that means. _I'll_ be there, though," Cailan said, pure excitement in his voice. "I'd like nothing better than to prove myself in battle. Sometimes I imagine myself leading the armies, like my father did during the rebel battles against Orlais. It was such an exciting time to live in! I envy him that…will you be fighting?"

"I will, Highness," Fergus said. Cailan clapped him on the shoulder.

"Then may we meet on the field as equal foes, and may the best man be left standing," he grinned.

"Cailan?" Anora's voice called, and the prince turned around as his fiancé came through the door. Anora hesitated when she saw the others, and then a polite smile graced her lips.

"Anora! Come see – we were just looking at Eamon's weaponry collection."

"Cailan, we must talk…" Anora began. Her vague plans of seduction were being fizzled by the presence of the children – and in her estimation, that included fifteen year old Fergus Cousland.

"I'm busy. Can't it wait?" Cailan was examining a shield that was set against the wall, and Anora pressed her lips together, annoyed at his inattentiveness. It was all fine and good to paw at her when they were alone, but when _she_ wanted his attention...

"No. It can't. I—"

"Cailan! Here you are," Maric's jovial voice rang out, and Anora suppressed a sigh of frustration. She _hated_ being put off, especially when she had decided she was going to do something.

"Your Majesty," Anora said, dropping a curtsey. Fergus bowed low, and in their corner, Lyra looked up with interest. Alistair scooted himself behind the girl, hoping not to be seen.

"Anora. Fergus. Cailan, I'd like a word. If you'll accompany me?" Maric's tone brooked no nonsense, and Cailan followed his father from the room without a backward glance.

Fergus rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly unsure of what to do or say, with beautiful Anora Mac Tir standing before him. Fortunately for him, she spun on her heel and walked out.

Anora gave no though to the children she left behind, her mind planning her next encounter with Cailan. Perhaps the best approach would be to wait for Cailan in his room, and spread herself naked across his desk. If _that_ didn't get his attention, nothing would.

She wondered if she should bring one of the damned swords with her, just to make sure he couldn't get distracted.

.oOo.

"Loghain tells me you haven't been studying the maps," Maric said, and Cailan groaned.

"Father, really? Must we discuss this here? Now? I have all season to finish the work—"

"When we return to Denerim, I expect you to know the maps. You have tomorrow, and then a five-day carriage ride. That's the end of it. Are we clear?" Maric's voice was stern, and Cailan's eyes flicked sideways, a resigned look in his eyes.

"Fine. I'll know them." His tone was anything but convincing.

"Good." Maric searched Cailan's face. "This is _important_, Cailan. You _must_ know the country. How else do you expect to rule?"

"You'll be king for a long time yet, Father. I don't see what the point is, really. Isn't that what advisors are for?"

"Would you trust an apprentice to build your house?" Maric said.

"_What_?" Cailan laughed. "What does that have to do with ruling?"

Maric turned and began strolling down the hall, inviting his son to walk with him. Cailan hurried to catch up, and the two ambled through the castle. Maric gestured to the walls.

"See the stones, Cai…they were cut and fitted by dozens of people. But who led them? Who directed them in their jobs?"

"The foreman, I suppose," Cailan said.

"Why not his apprentice?"

"The apprentice doesn't have the training," Cailan said.

"Well, why not the stonemasons, then? They know the stone."

"They know how to _cut_ the stone," Cailan said. "Not how to build a castle."

"What of the woodworkers, who make the beams in the ceiling? The ones who pour the mortar, or the laborers who move the blocks? Why not have _them_ lead?"

"Father, where are you going with this?" Cailan said, and Maric gestured to the castle.

"_You_, my son, are the apprentice, and someday, you'll be the foreman."

"…Ah." Cailan said. "And I cannot trust my stonemasons or my woodworkers or my laborers to tell me how to do my job."

He looked at his father for a moment, and Maric's eyes were expectant.

"Point taken. I'll learn the maps," Cailan said.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: __While searching online for Bann Alfstanna's last name, I came across one website - and I can't remember what it was - that listed her last name as possibly being Eremon. Whether this was something someone made up, or some random canon that a die-hard DA'er found, I have no idea, but I decided to go with it. Credit where credit is due - Bann Alfstanna's name is not my invention. Nor are any of the characters, and I do not own Dragon Age or Bioware or yada yada. This history, though, is mine...at least, the unique parts that David Gaider and company did not write are._

_Credit to KnightOfHolyLight, who caught my mistake about Arl Bryland. I was calling him Bann. Bad Eve, no posting chapters after 2AM. Thanks, KnightOfHolyLight! I've fixed it now. :-)_

_Thanks so much for reading. I love getting feedback, so drop me a line, or a review, or a line AND a review. :-) Lots of love to all of you... ~Eve_

* * *

Sweat dripping freely, Fergus Cousland wiped his brow and tightened his grip on the weapon in his hand. Weaponsmaster Coren's words echoed through his mind...

_Eyes on your enemy. Let the sword become an extension of your arm. Don't let them see your back or the whites of your eyes._

A quick flick of his wrist, and his visor snapped shut. The tourney master was about to call the beginning of the second round, and he was thrilled to have made it this far.

From the stands, Eleanor chewed on her nails, her face a mask of nerves. Bryce was watching with just as much attention, his arm around an excited Lyra, but more pride and less tension filled his eyes as he watched his son take a battle stance and wait for the bell. Lyra stood, leaning against his knee, her eyes serious and focused on the combatants.

The day had been dedicated to competition, with archery, spear-throwing, knife-throwing, and dueling being some of the main events. King Maric offered coin to the winners, and the status that came with triumph was as important as the gold. This last contest was the fiercest of all, but was also the most well attended, and some would say the most exciting.

The field below was mudded and trampled, the grass yellowed and beaten down by countless metal-tipped boots. After the first round of the melee, about thirty warriors remained, of all shapes, sizes and types. Tall, proud swordsmen in glittering steel, lithe, slender rogues in flexible leather, and even a few dwarves, short, stout and menacing. There were noblemen and their sons, trusted knights, a few freeholders, and even one or two commoners from the village of Redcliffe who had won the attention of Arl Eamon. There were no elves, which only made sense - the only elves in Redcliffe were servants, and had been brought from Denerim. There was no alienage, and even if there had been, it was unlikely they would be allowed to compete, or even have access to weapons in order to train.

The crowd held a collective breath, and then the tourney master swung his arm.

CLANG! went the bell, and the warriors rushed toward each other, shouting blood and death and bodily harm. Lyra bounced on her toes in her father's arm, and he strained around her bobbing head.

"Lyra, be still," he said, and her knees began wriggling instead.

"Where's Fergus?" she asked for the umpteenth time, and she followed the line of her father's pointing finger. Eleanor ceased her nail biting momentarily to marvel at her husband's patience. Realizing the mess she was making of her fingers, she made an annoyed sound and twisted her skirt instead.

"Are there any girls on the field?" Lyra asked, and Bryce hesitated.

"A few, I think," he said.

"Who?" Lyra asked.

"Uh... Bann Kethka is out there. And Bann Voranis. I think there are a few others, but there are so many small freeholders it's hard to know them all," Bryce said.

"I don't know them," Lyra said. "Will I fight in the tournaments someday?"

"If you'd like," Bryce said.

"Bryce!" Eleanor said, her voice sharp.

"What?" he said, turning to look at her. "What's wrong with that?"

Eleanor turned back to the field, not really wanting to get into a discussion about their daughter while their son was fighting for his life. Well, maybe not for his life... but at least not to get brained.

The two minute mark passed, and the bell sounded again. Those who were still standing made their way off the field, and a few medics rushed into the arena, helping those who had been knocked out and applying poultices and potions as necessary. One healer mage, a greying woman who looked to be in her late forties, moved from patient to patient, but didn't find anyone who was in desperate need of her skills.

Fergus pulled his helmet from his head and waved at his parents. Lyra cheered, and Eleanor sat back, her hand pressed to her heart.

"I shouldn't be watching this," she said faintly, and Bryce chuckled. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted down to the field.

"Give 'em hell, Fergus!"

"Yeah, give 'em hell!" Lyra echoed, and gasps sounded around them, along with a few amused chuckles, depending on just how stiff-necked the listeners were. Bryce grinned, and then shifted his hold on Lyra as he felt the heat of Eleanor's glare. He cleared his throat, and then looked at his small daughter.

"Lyra, that sort of language isn't appropriate," Bryce said, attempting to make his voice stern. Lyra opened her mouth to protest, and then caught a wisp of her mother's heated look.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, ma," she said, and Eleanor adjusted her skirts, the movement terse and annoyed.

"What's wrong, love?" Bryce asked, realizing that Eleanor had been on edge all day. His fingers slipped through hers, and she sighed.

"Rendon spoke with me today. Again."

"About Lyra and Nathaniel?" Bryce said in an undertone, and Eleanor nodded. On the field below, Fergus sluiced water over his head from a bucket a page was trotting around the field. He mopped himself with a rag, and then jammed his helmet back on his head.

"The man's determined, I'll give him that," Bryce said, and then began cheering with the rest of the crowd as the culled herd took the field again. About twenty warriors remained as they entered the next round. CLANG! went the bell.

"The melee...an excuse for warriors to beat each other bloody," Eleanor murmured.

"We can't all be archers, Elle..." Bryce said, and then leapt to his feet as Fergus sent a much larger man spinning to the ground.

"That's my boy! That's my son!" Bryce yelled, a grin wide enough to split the sky parading all over his face.

"Down, Cousland!" a friendly shout from behind him came, and Bryce turned, grinning, to see Arl Bryland smirking at him.

"Did you see, Leonas?" Bryce said, and Leonas Bryland waved him down.

"We all saw, Bryce, but you're blocking the view!" Friendly laughter erupted, and Bryce lowered himself, chuckling.

"Don't distract him, da!" Lyra scolded, and Bryce hugged his girl to his side.

The fabric of her skirt was being rent, and Eleanor sought another way to relieve her tension. Her hands reached for her handkerchief and she began twisting it, worrying the fabric into unrecoverable wrinkles. It was Fergus' first time in a tourney, his first time being attacked with seriousness of any kind, and Eleanor couldn't help but be afraid, even with the competence that the event was being handled. There was almost no chance of Fergus being injured; the participants were fighting with wooden tourney swords and there were healers on hand, but she was still anxious.

"He cornered me right before the tourney began," Eleanor continued to her husband. "But this time he also asked about Fergus - for Delilah."

"Who?" Bryce's eyes were on the field, and Eleanor sighed, exasperated.

"Rendon."

Forcing his focus away from the fight, Bryce considered the idea. It wasn't such a bad one, really - Fergus was fifteen, Delilah was thirteen. Better than thinking of his eight-year old being promised to a boy eight years her senior... Certainly the age difference would mean less and less as the years passed, but right now, it just didn't sit right. Fergus and Delilah, though, they could be married in the next four or five years, and Rendon would be pleased.

But Bryce misliked the idea of using his son and daughter to further himself politically, and he was hesitant to commit his children to marriages not of their own choosing. Maybe he was just sentimental, but the idea simply didn't appeal.

"I'll speak to Rendon," Bryce said. "At the very least, we can see how Fergus feels about it." The matter closed, he turned back to the melee, and Eleanor's voice sounded again.

"Your ideas about marriage are admirable, Bryce," Eleanor said, "and I understand why you feel that way. The Couslands have been the most powerful family in Ferelden - other than the Theirins, of course - for generations, and you had no need to climb higher. But Rendon doesn't feel the way you do. Don't forget, Highever belonged to Amaranthine, once upon a time."

"Once upon a time? Eleanor, five ages ago!" Bryce laughed.

"And what of it? Rendon has enough ambition to want to reclaim the old glory of what Amaranthine once was. If he can do that by marrying his children to Highever, why wouldn't he?"

The crowd broke into cheering again as the tourney master struck the bell, and another five warriors were helped from the field. Fergus was beaming from ear to ear, having made it to round four. Only fifteen remained of the original group, and Bryce was beside himself.

"Da, is Fergus winning?" Lyra was bouncing again.

"He is, Lyra!" Bryce grinned, and Lyra squealed and clapped her hands.

"Fergus could have his pick of brides," Eleanor said in a low tone, returning to their discussion in an undertone. She was conscious of the crowd, but no one seemed to be paying attention anyway. "The Howes are a respectable, old family. We should consider Rendon's offer."

"Look, Eleanor, I'll speak with Fergus," Bryce said, the subject beginning to irritate him. "But I am not deciding for him. It's his life, and he's the one who'll have to sleep beside his wife until he dies, not you or me. I don't understand how people can make decisions of that magnitude, without consulting the ones in question."

Eleanor sat back, letting the matter drop. Bryce was sometimes too idealistic to be real.

The bell sounded, and Fergus rushed forward. Almost immediately, he was knocked sideways, and he hit the ground, a warrior pointing a wooden sword at his throat. He held up his hands in the "yield" sign, and the warrior backed off and waded again into the melee. Fergus scrambled out of the way and joined the others on the sidelines.

"Awww," Lyra said, and Bryce cupped his hands around his mouth again.

"Well done, Fergus!" he called, and Fergus turned and smiled at his father in the stands. Clear pride was written on his face, and Eleanor's heart warmed to see it. She was glad she hadn't fought her husband over Fergus' entry into the tournament... now that he was safe.

The next three rounds were brutal, and Eleanor was soon just as glad that Fergus had been knocked out of the competition when he had. The warriors were in to win the hundred-sovereign purse that Maric was offering. She was watching, and actually starting to catch on to the excitement of it all, when she noticed that one warrior was being... avoided. It was becoming more and more obvious as the combatants thinned.

"What's going on there?" she said, gesturing. Bryce looked, and then sighed a little.

"That's Cailan."

"He seems like a fine warrior. Why are they avoiding him? Surely they can't mean for him to win?" Eleanor said, and Bryce turned to her.

"Would you knowingly strike the heir to the kingdom?"

Eleanor's eyes widened.

"Then it isn't a fair fight," she argued.

"True. It's why Maric never enters the tourneys anymore, but Cailan has yet to learn this. He should have been taken out in the first round, when it might have been attributed to many. Now no one will risk striking him." The tourney master rang the bell, and then strode onto the trampled grass.

"Three combatants remain! Raise your voices, Redcliffe!"

The crowd let forth a mighty yell, and the three remaining men removed their helms and waved to the people in the stands. Fergus was surprised to see his friend Nathaniel Howe among the three left standing. The tourney master began to outline new rules, using a point scale based on regions of the body where the combatants would strike one another.

"That's Nathaniel Howe!" Eleanor said, and Bryce gave a low whistle.

"I'll be damned..."

"Bryce! Language," Eleanor said, and Lyra giggled. Bryce shaded his eyes against the sun, squinting down on the field.

"He fights with daggers..." Bryce said softly. "How in the black city did he make it this far?"

Cailan, Nathaniel, and a third warrior by the name of Ulthor bowed to each other, and replaced the helmets on their heads. The bell sounded, and they began circling. Ulthor was clearly hesitant, and it proved to be his undoing.

Nathaniel gestured, and Cailan's head turned at the movement. Seeing an opening, Ulthor rushed forward, and Nathaniel rolled out of reach, springing up again into a lithe pose. Cailan gripped his sword and caught Ulthor across the torso as he bulled past, and then Nathaniel struck him with double daggers on the back of his breastplate. The tourney master's voice rose above the collective gasp of the crowd.

"Five points. Ulthor is defeated!"

The warrior bowed, and walked from the ring. The crowd began murmuring ripples of displeasure.

"Two children, the finalists...Cailan shouldn't be allowed," Bryce heard one irritated voice say, and the general consensus of the audience seemed to be just that.

Nathaniel got a fresh grip on his weapons, and Cailan hefted his broadsword. They feinted, testing each other, looking for weakness. Suddenly, Cailan darted forward, and Nathaniel jumped out of the way, one dagger sliding across the prince's arm as Cailan passed by. The heir spun and took in the young rogue, who was swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking as fresh and ready as if this were only the beginning of a training exercise.

"One point to Nathaniel!"

"Pardon me...pardon...'scuse me..." Fergus, free of his armor, crawled through the stands, ending in the seat beside his father and Lyra. The girl jumped on her brother, hugging him tightly.

"Fergus, you're a mabari!" Lyra cried, and chuckles sounded around them as Fergus was rocked sideways by his sister's enthusiastic embrace.

"Thanks, pup," he said, wincing as she squeezed him.

"You're hurt," Eleanor said, her brows drawing together.

"Bruises, ma. I'm fine," Fergus said, and he looked out on the field.

"I miss anything?" he said, low, to his father.

"Not yet. They're testing each other," Bryce said, and then Cailan darted forward, jumping back at the last minute. Nathaniel jumped back as well, misreading Cailan's intent and showing that he could be bluffed. Cailan's movements became more confident.

The fight continued, the boys becoming bolder as they continued feinting, looking for ways to trick each other. After his first mistake, Nathaniel seemed to have a slight edge, and Cailan was clearly losing patience with this careful probing. He rushed forward again, and it was almost painful to see how easily Nathaniel tapped him on the other arm._**  
**_

"One point to Nathaniel! Two-Zero!" the tourney master cried, and the crowd murmured again.

"Does he not realize?" one woman said from in front of the Cousland family, and Fergus looked at his father.

"Realize what?"

Bryce hesitated. "Why do you think Cailan and Nathaniel are the last two on the field, son?"

"They're the best...right?" Fergus said, and Bryce raised an eyebrow.

"They're not?" Fergus said, and peered at the field again.

"They're teenagers, Fergus, unblooded," Bryce said. "Better than seasoned men, than warriors who've survived battle over and over?"

Fergus turned back to his father, his eyes confused. "Then why are they out there?"

"Cailan is there because no one will strike him," Eleanor said. "Nathaniel...must have been just slippery enough not to get caught by anyone. And now he doesn't realize that convention requires him to allow Cailan the win."

"That's ridiculous!" Fergus said. "Cailan wouldn't want that!"

"So if it were you out there, you would not hesitate to strike down the prince of Ferelden?"

Fergus hesitated.

"Exactly," Bryce said, and they watched again.

"One point to Nathaniel! Three-Zero!" the tourney master called, and Eleanor dared a look at Maric. He was seated in the front of the stands, surrounded by retainers. Anora and Loghain sat nearby, tense looks on their faces. Maric was watching closely, but rather than angry, he looked...intrigued.

"Nathaniel's not giving up. He's going to win," Fergus said, naked awe in his voice.

"Look! There's Alistair!" Lyra cried, and pointed at the fence across the field. The boy was standing with his arms and feet hooked through the fence, and beside him was a dark man, wearing strange armor. The two were talking as they watched the match, neither of them seeming particularly interested in the outcome.

"Ma, can I go see him?" Lyra asked, and Eleanor shook her head.

"Not now, Lyra."

"Awww, why?" she whined, and Eleanor shushed her. Lyra plopped down on her father's feet and crossed her arms, prepared to sulk, no longer interested in the tournament now that Fergus was out of it.

Cailan and Nathaniel rushed together at last, and there was an indrawing of breath from the crowd. Nathaniel's daggers parried Cailan's broadsword easily, and he leaned out of the path of a wild swing. Cailan overbalanced, and Nathaniel spun, landing a double tap on Cailan's back.

"Two points to Nathaniel! Cailan is defeated - Nathaniel Howe is the winner!" The tourney master looked at Maric, who was watching with his hands steepled beneath his chin. He appeared deep in thought, and the nobility held their breaths, all eyes on their king.

There was silence from the stands, and then Cailan pulled his helmet from his head and picked up Nathaniel's arm, raising it high.

"Redcliffe! Your champion stands, waiting your approval! Will you not cheer?" Cailan looked defiantly at Maric, daring him to disagree.

The king of Ferelden smiled at his son, then pushed himself to his feet and began clapping. His retainers were quick to follow, and then everyone else joined in, the noise growing exponentially moment by moment. Cailan brandished his sword, and the audience shouted their approval.

The applause slackened as a girl broke away from the crowd and ran out to the two young men. She tugged Nathaniel's helmet from his head, threw it to the ground, and clasped his face in her hands. An instant later, her lips were plastered to his, and the nobility began laughing and cheering enthusiastically at the scene, which was straight out of a tale. Cailan grinned with delight as Nathaniel gave himself up to the moment and began kissing her back.

"Alfstanna Eremon?" Eleanor said with interest, and her eyes flew to Rendon Howe. Even from this distance, she could see his eyes darkening with rage, and he looked fit to be tied.

"Lucky bastard," Fergus muttered, and Eleanor's hand reached out and cuffed the back of his head.

_"Fergus!"_

.oOo.

Rendon Howe glowered down at his son, who was seated on a stone bench in one of the private gardens in the castle courtyard. The noble families had all begun their leave-taking after the tourney had ended, and most of them were still down in the field chatting and goodbye-ing as carriages began to gather and collect their passengers. Father and son would remain undisturbed, for awhile, anyway.

"What were you thinking?" Rendon said finally, his voice angry and hot. "The melee? Nathaniel, the melee?"

"I won, Father," Nathaniel said, his voice a cross between a sulk and a plea. "I thought-"

"Did you? Did you think at all?" Rendon said, his rage stopping Nathaniel in his tracks. "It was luck, not skill that brought you the win. What do you think might have happened, had Cailan not been there? Once again, you've proven your ineptitude, your thoughtlessness. And what the_ hell_ was that girl doing on the field?"

Nathaniel shifted, his eyes focused on the mud flaking from his boots. He hadn't expected Alfstanna to do that. The memory of her lips brought a flush to his cheeks and a pull to his groin, and he prayed that his father couldn't actually read his mind. He sometimes wondered about the old git.

All he'd wanted was to impress the old man, to prove he was able. Was that so wrong?

"No answer. I see." Rendon pursed his lips. "The Couslands - and everyone else in Redcliffe, I might add - saw you._ Kissing a girl_ from a _minor_ noble family. How long has this been going on? Have you bedded her?"

"No-"

"If her father comes to me with claims, I'll have no choice, Nathaniel. Honor will dictate that you marry her, and it will be a waste! All because you couldn't keep your cock in your pants! This could ruin us - What were you thinking?" The browbeating was getting worse, and Nathaniel was getting desperate.

"Father, I love Alfstanna. I don't want to marry Lyra - she's a child. I want-"

"Yes, you made it clear what you want. To all of Redcliffe, no less," Rendon sneered. "Love her? You think you love her? Hormones is what you feel, not love. Selfish, Nathaniel! You're selfish! Do you think love is what will raise our house, what will bring power back to the Howe family? You cannot allow yourself to be taken in by desire! That girl is a distraction. Lyra Cousland will be of age soon enough, and one woman is much like another after sunset. Boy, what is it you think I've been trying to do, for you, for your brother, for Delilah? Do you think I'm doing it for me?"

"Yes, father, I do!" Nathaniel burst out. "I do think you're doing it for you! You don't care about us, all you want is your precious status, as if it ever did anything good for anyone! I don't care about status! I don't want Amaranthine, or Highever, or anywhere-"

The back of Rendon's hand struck Nathaniel's cheek, and the boy's head spun as he gasped for breath. It hadn't hurt, not really...but the fact that his father had struck him was more painful than any beating.

Rendon's eyes glittered with passion, and he straightened the front of his tunic, tight control bringing him back down.

"You will find the Eremon girl, and you will tell her that there is nothing for her in Amaranthine. I'll not have you marrying below your station, and I'll not have her taking advantage of your... _weakness_... to trap you. If I hear so much as a whisper of anything different..." Rendon's soft threat trailed away, and Nathaniel's cheeks were hot with anger and insult.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Nathaniel swallowed, a lump in his throat, his stomach leaden, his heart racing.

"Yes, father," he said, and Rendon turned and walked away, boots echoing against the stone of the courtyard.

Minutes passed, and Nathaniel didn't move from his seat. Chest aching, eyes burning with unspent tears, he sat in thought, despising his father, hating the curse of his birth, wondering what he would tell Alfstanna. He wished they had continued their course in the hayloft, instead of doing the honorable thing and delaying their desires. His father might never have spoken to him again, but he wasn't sure he cared anymore... at least he could have married her. Attempt after attempt, all of his life, and nothing had ever been good enough for Rendon Howe. Nathaniel's give-a-damn was broken, perhaps beyond repair.

The hundred sovereign purse was heavy in his pouch, and his mind began flying, planning, scheming. He could hire a carriage to Waking Sea, marry Alfstanna, buy passage to Antiva...

_Not until Harvestmere, and Alfstanna's sixteenth birthday._

But he could. The gold was proof of it. As long as Rendon didn't take it away.

"Nathaniel?"

Delilah crept into the courtyard, and sat herself beside her brother. She put her arms around him and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"You were marvelous," she whispered, and he hugged her, the tears flowing down his nose and into her hair.

.oOo.

"Take it."

"Nathaniel-"

"_Take it_," he insisted, and pressed the pouch of gold again into Alfstanna's hands. Eyes frightened, her fingers curled around the leather in acceptance, and he breathed a little easier once its damning weight left his hands.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"_**  
**_

"Keep it, for now. Bury it, lock it away, do what you think is best. I'll write to you. I can't take the chance that my father will take the money," he said. "Do you still want to keep house for me in Antiva?"

She threw her arms around him and began to laugh, his equivalent of a proposal sending her heart flying. He held her close, his head buried in her hair, just breathing her in. A few moments was all he had, and he intended to make the most of them.

"I would keep house for you anywhere. But...you were right. I can't leave Waking Sea," she murmured. "But we can stay there. It can be our home... You need never go back to Amaranthine again." She drew back, a soft look in her eyes. The moment would stay with Nathaniel for the rest of his life, the memory of Alfstanna's sweet young face carrying him through dark, lonely times.

"Harvestmere," she whispered.

"Harvestmere," he agreed, and cupped her face. Her chin lifted, and their lips joined, hearts beating as quickly as caged birds tasting freedom. Kissing Alfstanna was pure ecstacy, and he didn't relish the thought of the lonely months ahead._ We'll be together soon,_ he thought. _My father won't keep us apart forever._

"I love you," he whispered, and she laughed, a breathless sob that echoed with wanting.

"I love you, too," she whispered back.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:** Thanks to Jaden Anderson for beta'ing this chapter for me. :-D I've been so concentrating on becoming a better writer, that I forgot to concentrate on story. Kind of important, no? And whaddya know, my inspiration returned for this prequel. If you'd like, look up a song called "The Voice" by Celtic Woman. It's what was running through my head as I wrote the final few paragraphs of this chapter. :-) _

_Lots of love, reader!_

* * *

Alistair sat on the edge of the fence, kicking his feet and watching the departing wagons. The week was ended, and all of his playmates were going home. He wondered where Lyra was.

"Did you enjoy the tournament?" Duncan said, and Alistair nodded.

"I liked the fighting."

"Have you begun any of your own training?" The man asked. Alistair was quiet, and shy, and Duncan had been trying to converse with him for almost an hour now. It was like pulling hens' teeth, but Duncan didn't mind. Every small detail was being filed away, to be recorded and sent to Alistair's mother, Fiona.

Alistair shook his head. "Eamon says I ain't ready."

Duncan considered, one hand raising to his chin. The boy looked strong enough, a little short for his age, perhaps, but that would be the elven heritage coming through, and the Warden doubted that Alistair would ever be overly tall.

"You know, I started sword work when I was quite young," Duncan said, and Alistair looked up in interest.

"How old were you?"

"Oh, seven, perhaps. And I became a Warden at fifteen."

"Really?" Awe covered the boy's features. "So, what'dya do as a Warden?"

"Protect people. We do what we must to keep Ferelden safe." Alistair digested this, one hand finding a bit of loose wood to pick at. Duncan's sharp eyes memorized his face... wide, hazel eyes serious, a few scattered freckles dotting his cheeks and the bridge of his long, slender nose. _He favors Fiona... he has her easy smile. And yet, there is so much of Maric in him, as well. _

"So...you're like a knight?"

Duncan chuckled. "To a degree, yes. And what of you, Alistair? What is it you wish to be?"

The boy shrugged, and studied the grass. "I dunno. I 'spose I'll be a soldier someday. If Eamon lets me learn the sword, I mean. Can't be a soldier if I can't fight."

"Can you read, and write?"

Alistair nodded.

"I would like to write to you," Duncan said. "Would you like that?"

Alistair's eyes widened. "You wanna write me letters? Why?"

"Because I think you are a fine young man, and perhaps we can become friends through letters. Have you never received a letter of your own?"

Alistair shook his head and inspected the grass again. "Got no one who'll write to me."

"What of your friends? Surely there are other noble children who you have friendships with," Duncan said, remembering the pack of youth he'd seen running around that morning. Alistair had been among them, thick as thieves with one particular, boisterous girl.

"I just met most of them this week," Alistair said. "And now they're all goin'." His small foot kicked at the grass, and the look on his face was so sad it made Duncan's heart twist.

"Are there any you'd like to write to?" Duncan asked. "You could, you know."

"Really?" Clearly, the idea had not occurred to the youngster, and Duncan smiled at his befuddled look.

"Really."

"I 'spose I'd write to Lyra..." the boy said, and then his brows furrowed. "What would I say?"

"Tell her how you are and what you're doing, and ask her the same."

Alistair considered this, and then he brightened as the same girl from the morning came charging across the grass.

"Al'stair, c'mon! We're leaving in a little while. Let's play tag!" The girl was bouncing with enthusiasm, and Alistair didn't look back as he took off after her, their feet swishing through the grass.

Duncan sat himself in the grass and pulled a roll of vellum from his pouch, along with a stick of graphite. He began to scribe a letter, his eyes glancing at the children often as they played.

.oOo.

Bryce Cousland stood waiting as Eamon Guerrin shook hands with Bann Franderel, who was herding his many children into two carriages.

"Honorata, don't hit your brother."

"Don't call me that!" a tinny voice berated, and Bann Franderel chuckled as he ducked into the carriage.

"Bryce! Thank you for coming," Eamon said, and clasped his hand with real warmth.

"It was our pleasure, Eamon. You are a fine host," Bryce said with a smile, and then hesitated. "I wonder if I might speak with you privately?"

"Certainly, my friend. I suppose...now would be fine." Eamon led him away from the field to the shade of a large willow.

"What can I do for you, Teyrn Cousland?" Eamon's voice was friendly, and Bryce silently sent a quick prayer to the Maker that he wasn't about to offend Eamon somehow.

"I wanted to speak with you about your ward, Alistair. Do...you have definite plans for him?"

Eamon's brow furrowed. "You wish to talk of Alistair? Has the boy done something?"

"No, no, nothing like that. In fact, he and my daughter have become quite firm friends," Bryce said. "Have you seen them running around this week?"

"No, I admit, I've been a bit too involved with all of the activities to notice," Eamon said. "I trust he's behaved himself?"

"Admirably. Eleanor asked me to speak with you, in fact. We...would like to offer to foster him at Highever."

Eamon's brows shot skyward, and then a suspicious look crossed his face.

"Whyever for?"

Bryce chuckled, hoping the easy sound covered the _un_easiness he was feeling at Eamon's unwelcome expression. "Eleanor feels he's a good influence on Lyra. He got along well with our children, and she thought perhaps with your recent marriage you might wish to have... more privacy in your own house. Your care of him has been exemplary, and it's because of this that Eleanor wishes to have him in our home."

Eamon's shoulders dropped slightly as his tension over Alistair released. Bryce wondered at that... could there be something to Eleanor's thought about Alistair's parentage after all?

"The boy is to be sent to Denerim in a few months. He'll enter the chantry, and he'll be trained as a Templar, or a Brother, whichever he's more suited to."

"Ah," Bryce said. Eleanor would be disappointed, and he was glad that Lyra knew nothing of their plan. She would have been devastated to know that Alistair couldn't come to Highever.

"Well, if for some reason those plans don't work out, do consider my offer," Bryce said. He held out his hand to shake, and Eamon nodded as their hands clasped.

"I shall," he said, and then looked as if he might like to have said more, but didn't. The men said their goodbyes, and promised to see each other at Satinalia for the Couslands' ball.

.oOo.

"Write to me," Alfstanna said, her voice urgent. "Don't forget-"

"How could I?" Nathaniel breathed, and his fingers threaded through her hair, cupping the back of her neck as their lips connected.

"Nat! _NAT!" _ Thomas' voice cut through the heady cloud, bringing Nathaniel slamming back to earth. He released Alfstanna's mouth to lean back and shout at his brother.

"Shut up, Thomas!" he yelled

"Da says we're leavin'! He said you have two minutes to get your lily-white ass out here or-"

"Shut _up_!" Nathaniel hissed as his brother came skidding up the path. Thomas' eyes glittered with wickedness as he sidled closer. Alfstanna started to pull away, but Nathaniel wrapped her more closely into his arms and scowled at his kid brother.

"Get lost, Thomas," she said.

"Nat's gotta go," he snarked. "He's got no more time for a hussy like _you_."

Alfstanna's cheeks flamed red and she gasped, and Nathaniel reached out and pushed the boy. Thomas was grinning like a fool and only stumbled backward, seemingly unfazed by his brother's shove.

"Thomas, get out of here before I whoop your little butt," Nathaniel threatened.

"You gonna kiss her, Nat?" Thomas sneered, making Nathaniel's blood boil. Alfstanna's voice gave him pause as he considered violence.

"Yes, he is," she said, and pressed her mouth against his own, her hands gripping his collar as she tugged him down to meet her. Thomas' laugh of derision echoed all around them, but Alfstanna's lips were all the distraction Nathaniel needed. Her lashes brushed the edges of his cheek, and his thumbs stroked her jaw.

"Write me," she murmured against his lips, and his forehead fell against hers, eyes drifting closed.

"I will," he said softly, and his lips claimed hers one last time before he darted away, dashing down the path after Thomas to where Rendon Howe's carriage waited. Alfstanna ran a few steps after them, eyes following Nathaniel's back until he had disappeared from her vision. One hand stole up to caress her mouth, and her eyes closed, branding the memory of his touch into her memory. She would relive it over and over as the months passed, before Harvestmere and her birthday, when they could be married.

.oOo.

Anora stepped up into the carriage and lowered herself onto the plush seat, arranging her skirt around her so as not to wrinkle it. It was a long ride back to Denerim - five days - and a certain amount of wrinkling was bound to happen, but protocol was protocol, and it was her duty to keep herself as fresh and beautiful as possible. A queen could do no less.

Cailan was calling goodbye to someone, laughing and waving, and Anora felt a surge of irritation. Kingly behavior, her fiance did _not_ possess. Immaturity in spades, but plain common sense was something that she didn't see a lot of from Cailan. And now here he was, shouting across the yard like a child. Couldn't he walk over and speak with someone, like everyone else? He was making a spectacle of himself.

She hadn't managed to get him alone _once _since her father's edict. Suddenly, he was serious about his studying. Why now, and not before, she couldn't fathom. And now, on the drive home, with the king and the general sitting three feet away, it seemed entirely unlikely that she would have any kind of chance at all.

She understood her father's order. Oh, all too well. Some birds needed help to fly, some needed a nudge, and others needed to be pushed from the nest to test their wings.

Cailan needed a shove off a cliff, and Anora had been elected to make the push.

They'd _always_ been playmates and friends. He was a year her junior, and since their first kiss when Anora was thirteen, he'd been hers, wrapped around her finger tighter than a Summerday ribbon. It had all been pleasant enough at first - being betrothed, knowing that she would be a queen one day. A young girl's dream come true...a beautiful life, a handsome prince, and a happy-ever-after, just waiting for her to grow up and claim it.

Now that the day was nearly upon her, her dread was thick enough to choke on.

Things weren't as simple as she had believed when she was a girl. There would be dresses, balls, beautiful moments. But there would also be endless meetings, missives, _responsibility..._the weight of a country, and all on her shoulders. It was clear that Cailan was an idiot, incapable of the job on his own. A friendly, sweet idiot - but an idiot, nonetheless. An idealistic boy who could not fathom the amount of work that was involved in running a kingdom. She had been grooming herself for it for years, and the weight grew heavier as her wedding day approached.

To make it worse, her father was the only one who believed she could do it. The others, they tutted and smiled and bowed, calling her "my lady" and suggesting that perhaps she would be happier visiting with their wives. She was still developing the perfect, cool responses required to let them know how very serious she was about staying to speak of state affairs. Maric, at least, was impressed, and that was the first step. The others would fall in line, and perhaps once she and Cailan were married...

Her thoughts lingered on that. Married. She had been expecting it her whole life, but with the burden of babies upon her, it was distasteful. How much time would she have for the kingdom, with a pack of brats hanging around her neck? How seriously would people take her, with a belly rounded out by Cailan's desire? She would lose every stitch of ground she had gained, and yet her father was convinced this was the quickest path to ensuring the safety of Ferelden.

Bed Cailan. Conceive. Marry. Rule.

She knew her father had intelligence gathered from Orlais, and that there were whisperings of an uprising. Why he didn't think _Maric_ could handle it, she didn't know. Loghain had been his right-hand man for years, and the arrangement seemed to work well enough...

...they _had_ been growing apart, though. And in the last week, the distance seemed to have widened even more. What could have transpired in Redcliffe, to drive the largest wedge yet between Maric and Loghain? She couldn't figure it. It had been a week of fun, of social activities and quiet politicking. The nobility regularly used such events to strengthen ties, arrange engagements and talk of alliances for the future. _Maric's endorsement of Isolde, perhaps?_ But the orlesian woman had sworn allegiance to Ferelden, and had been watched closely for three years by Loghain's experts. Not a whisper of rebellion was in her, only an honest desire to marry Eamon and give him children. _She's so old,_ Anora thought with a giggle. _She'll be lucky to have _one_, much less a brood._

The errant thought reminded her of her father's command. _I wonder if I can get away with only one pregnancy_, Anora thought. _Andraste's knickers, I suppose it'll have to be two. The heir and the spare, and all that. Maker, make the first one male..._

Cailan was...sweet. In a friendly, waggly-puppy-dog sort of way. She would marry him, help him, give him children, and not complain. She couldn't prevent the teeth-gritting, though. It was part of the bargain of becoming his queen, and gaining the power that came with it.

"No, _you_ take care!...I will!...Safe travels! Yes, Goodbye, then! Til Satinalia!" Cailan's laughter rang out like a bell as he crouched into the carriage, landing on the seat beside her. Leaning over, he planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek, and she disciplined her face into a pleasant smile. King Maric and her father made a more docile entrance, and a few moments later they were rolling out of Redcliffe.

.oOo.

Anora's chin slipped down to her chest, the sudden sensation jerking her awake. She wiped one hand over her mouth, highly conscious of the small rivulet of drool. Fortunately, the men were sleeping even as she had been, and none had seen this lapse in decorum. Queens did not _drool_.

Two days gone from Redcliffe, with three remaining, and it seemed as though all they could do was read, sleep, or in Cailan's case, study. Conversation had run dry after the first few hours.

King Maric was pensive about _something_, and her father was taciturn - even more so than usual. Something had transpired between the two of them, Anora was sure of it. and though they weren't as close as they had been when Anora was a girl, things had become worse in recent years. And now they had barely spoken in days. Cailan was buried in his maps when he wasn't sleeping, and she had finished the only book she'd brought with her. Anora was certain that if someone didn't say _something_ soon, she would go mad.

The wheels creaked to a stop, and she glanced out of the carriage. The other two wagons were coming to a stop in a line behind them, the king's servants and retainers pouring from the doors. Had she slept away the morning? It couldn't be time to eat already.

"Why are we stopping?" she called to the driver.

"Lunch, m'lady," he said, and hopped down from the seat to open the door for Anora. She stretched, then climbed carefully over Cailan's comatose body to step slowly from the carriage.

A shaft of sunlight kissed her face, and she spread her hands, letting the cool breeze play over her skin. It felt lovely to be out of the carriage, standing on her own two feet. She smoothed her skirts, pleased with the way they were staying so neat and tidy. For the fun of it, she had chosen her favorite dress that morning - a pale green gown, trimmed in cloth-of-gold and orlesian lace. Frivolous, perhaps, but it was a dress that wasn't fancy enough for formalwear, and too fancy for everyday, so it didn't come out of her wardrobe often. She had worn it in Redcliffe to Eamon and Isolde's wedding, but when they returned to Denerim it would find its way to the back of her wardrobe again, and she wanted to wear it once more before then, just for the fun of it. She especially liked the way the green of the gown brought out her eyes, and had chosen to wear her mother's emerald pendant, as well.

"I think I'll walk for a bit, Henley," she said to the driver, and he bowed acknowledgement.

"Yes miss. Shall I send someone behind you?"

"No need. I won't go far - I'll keep the carriage in sight," she promised. He nodded, and continued in his task of spreading a blanket on the ground for their noon picnic.

Anora wandered down the path, seeking nothing but a few moments of fresh air before lunch and the never-ending trip back to Denerim.

.oOo.

The wolf pup crouched in the bracken, eyes on the carriage. People! So many...she counted at least twelve, maybe fifteen. They buzzed about like bees in a hive, busy with their meaningless tasks, running to and fro to carry out errands that meant less than nothing to the small wolf. Her tongue dipped from the side of her mouth, releasing a bit of body heat, and with a darting movement she nipped at her side as a biting fly sought to draw blood.

A brief movement from the head carriage, and the tongue vanished back into the furred mouth. She... a princess? A queen? Some royal personage, there could be no question in that! Oh, but she glittered... sparkled like the stones that seemed plain on the outside, but revealed hidden beauty when smashed open. The pup raised herself to her feet, nosing aside a rippling stalk of brush, to get a closer glimpse at the glamorous creature who stood before her.

Her gown was palest green, like the leaves in earliest spring before they deepened with the maturity of sun and rain. A glimmering golden thread sparkled round her neck, bearing a bauble as deep as moss. Gold shimmered at her wrists, at her bodice, in the color of her softly waving hair... She curled her fingertips toward the sky, then yawned, rosy lips stretching dainty-wide. Blue-green eyes darted about with curiosity, and a cruel chuckle sounded from behind the wolf pup.

She whined.

The young royal began to stroll away from the carriage, the sunlight sending glimmers of light dancing along the lines of her dress. One casual hand reached out to graze a limb, startling a bird into flight.

"Morrigan... you see that girl? You think her beautiful?" Flemeth's voice was mocking, and Morrigan cowered, pressing her face into the mud. When Mother was in this mood, 'twas better to stay low and listen. Opinions earned ire.

"Beauty fades. Intelligence dwindles. Time lays all low. Power... that is the only mistress worth serving. Remember that, Morrigan. That girl... She is _nothing_," the witch said softly. "Nothing but an example."

There was more movement at the carriage, and Flemeth's stare lighted on the golden-haired youth who leaped down the steps. His eyes scanned the forest, absorbing his surroundings with an eager look.

"Anora?" he called, and Flemeth's eyes glowed, hungry anticipation shooting through her gaze. Morrigan's nose darted in the direction the girl had gone, but she had disappeared among the trees.

"What have we here..." Flemeth purred, and then pure shock settled itself over her face.

"Oh, no. No, no no..." her voice growled. "They fool with the plans of ages..."

Morrigan sank back as her mother brushed past. "Go home, girl," her harsh voice commanded, and the wolf pup slunk away, then turned back at the shimmer of bright magic.

.oOo.

Honey-colored hair, softly waving, gleamed in the noon sunlight as Anora slipped her hand into Cailan's, and her mouth reached upward to brush against his. Cailan's eyes lit with surprise, then drifted closed as he gave himself over to the moment. She smelled like sunlight and earth, like wisdom and passion.

"Come," she murmured, and led him into the trees. He went, charmed, his feet carrying him through the bracken as he trailed behind the female swaying her way deep into the forest. Desire curled through him, like mist invading a moonlit night, creeping silently to take him over until he could think of nothing but possessing the enchanting creature who was his fiance.

Perhaps she read his thoughts, for she turned, lips seeking his own, fingers busy at his collar.

"Come to me," she whispered, her voice echoing, refracting, blocking out the small forest sounds until there was nothing to be heard, nothing to be seen but_ her_, nothing else in the world but his lust.

By the time the last piece of clothing slipped away, Cailan's mind was nothing but a black abyss, his body reacting to the woman in his arms as an animal in rut. As they sank to the spongy earth, the witch gripping his young body with her own, she released the pent-up power of her spell, sowing small seeds of the future that would have lasting repercussions in the years to come.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: **Thanks to Jaden Anderson for her beta of this chapter, and to WhatComesToMind, who kept me company as I wrote. :-D Much love, reader! And should you see fit to review... well, reviews help me get better, and they inspire me to continue. :-D_

_The story that Morrigan references can be found on this site! It is the fabulous work entitled "Through The Looking Glass", by Jaden Anderson, but other than a trip through the mirror, its similarity to Lewis Carroll's excellent work ends there - okay, it's *also* about an alternate universe, but one that makes a lot more sense than Wonderland. I highly recommend it. It isn't silly fluff at all - only Morrigan would think such a thing._

* * *

Mother was busy. _Now_ was the chance.

Morrigan slipped through the brush, paws falling silently in the thick moss that covered the understory. She nosed her way past a leafy shrub to scent the air... the carriage was deserted, and no one was in sight. She would slip inside, just for a moment - see what it was truly like to be one of these people...

_"Cailan! Caaaaailan!" _Voices from across the clearing... Blast, they were seeking the foolish young man already. Mother was playing with him, and he wouldn't be back until Mother was good and ready to let him go, if she let him go at all. Why she wanted to... _do_... the things she did with young humans was beyond Morrigan's understanding. Her wolf-self understood it on a more instinctual level, but her ten-year old mind found the whole thing disgusting. She would _never_ do that.

_Ever_.

No one was looking. Lighter than air, she leapt into the carriage.

Ah, the _smells_! 'Twas richness and civility mixed with the lingering scent of leather and violets. Morrigan buried her nose in a silken curtain, the smooth texture rippling beneath her nostrils. The teasing odor of paper wafted through the air, and her nose led her to a veiled alcove just above the seat she was perched upon. She nudged the fabric aside to reveal... _a line of books_! Books - the best find of all! What she wouldn't give to read them. Could she..._ borrow_ one, perhaps? If it were a good volume, Mother might not even mind...

She nosed one of the volumes aside, and leapt in surprise as a golden disc slid from a small compartment. It fell to the seat below, soft beams of sunlight sending glimmering rainbows dancing over the walls.

Morrigan's tongue darted out and wet her nose, a small whine escaping her throat. She crept over to sniff at the golden disc, which had fallen over to reveal a silvered circle framed by the gold. When a black wolf snout appeared in the circle, she snorted and leapt back in surprise.

_What_...?

She slunk forward again, and this time when the snout appeared she put her senses to use, snuffling at the air. It smelled like nothing, nothing but glass and metal - but there was a tinge of violets, as well. This object belonged to the young princess!

She recalled her mother's mention of such a thing. A looking glass, she had called it... the elves made use of such things. Magical, they were... called _eluvian_. Flemeth had refused to teach her any of the secrets such a mysterious thing held, though.

_Mirror. _She recalled the more casual name for it from a story in one of mother's books - something about a woman who had gone through a mirror and found an alternate world on the other side. It had been years since she had read the story, although she recalled thinking it silly... the woman had found her lost love, the double of a man who had been killed in her own reality after sacrificing himself for the good of humanity. Romantic, but pointless. Flemeth enjoyed such fluff, however.

The mirror was a lovely thing, encrusted with pearls and crystalline gemstones. A ray of sun set everything a-sparkle... _Such a lovely thing..._

The drab cold of their subterranean home came back in a crash, the furthest thing in the world from this carriage, these people, this mirror. Her mother was a powerful enchantress, but the mud still squished between their toes, and they still only owned one garment each. What use to yearn for _things_, Flemeth said, when magic could craft castles in the air!

What use, indeed, when magic never _did_.

Morrigan had read stories of princesses and brave knights, of great battles and grand love affairs. The women were beautiful and charming and the men were handsome and strong. Certainly, these two fit that description...him, young and golden, and her, slender and smiling.

_She must have many beautiful things,_ Morrigan thought. _And I... I have nothing. _

The eluvian was magic, this was what she had been told. Should it not stand to reason that this mirror could have some magic of its own? She should take it, study it. Perhaps Flemeth would even appreciate her forethought in bringing such an obviously magical item to her.

In her heart, Morrigan knew that none of this was true. The mirror had no scent of magic about it, and Flemeth would_ not_ be pleased. But her desire for the exquisite mirror was such that she ignored the practical half of her conscience. She was a little girl who had seen a pretty object, and wished to have it for her own.

Before she could think further on the matter, she grasped the circle of gold in her teeth and leapt from the carriage, running through the bracken without a backward glance. Past the spot where her mother was fooling with the human, through the trees to a remote spot in the hollow of an old, dead tree. It was hours from their hut, even with Mother's magical influence to speed them and strengthen their endurance. The scent of the metal in her mouth was harsh, and there was a bitter, tongue-curling taste to it. She wondered if it had been polished with a serum to obtain its high sheen, and if so, what had been used. The taste was _awful_.

She curled herself around her tail, settling down into the cushy undergrowth. Laying the mirror before her, she concentrated, willing herself to change...

A shimmer of magic, and Morrigan felt the unwelcome sensation of fur sliding away, skin crawling back into place, hair shifting and bones rearranging. 'Twas becoming easier to handle the transitions to and from her human form... the first time, it had taken nearly an hour to manage the change, and had left her aching for days. She'd been almost afraid to change back, and 'twas only her mother's threats that she would lose her humanity and spend all of her days as a wolf that finally convinced her to enact the magic.

How Flemeth managed to alter her appearance with such ease, and without the study normally required, 'twas a mystery to Morrigan. She had made herself into the image of the princess with little more than a glance. Morrigan despaired of ever mastering such magic herself, although Flemeth had assured her - with years of practice, she would be able to take another form, even another human one - although 'twould no doubt require much study of the person in question.

The hours that would need to go into such a study - the effort hardly seemed worth it. Whyever would anyone wish to be someone other than who they were?

Her shift from wolf-to-human complete, Morrigan drew up the mirror with a sigh of delight. The hem of her blouse made an excellent rag with which to wipe the bit of drool she had smeared across the reflective surface. She held it up, bright eyes shining with anticipation.

Her face was smeared with mud, browned by long afternoons in the sun. Feline eyes, dark gold and narrow, slanted back from a long, thin nose. Her smile seemed out of place, and indeed, hers was a face that did not often smile - 'twas an expression she'd stolen from the royal. That smile faded as she took in her reflection; dirty, flushed, nothing at all like the princess in the forest. Her hair was not honey blonde or shining, but black as a raven's wing, scraggly with twigs and hanging in tangled knots. The only thing beautiful about the reflection was the mirror itself, and Morrigan lowered it, disappointment curdling her stomach.

"Morrigan?"

_Damn!_

She slid the mirror into a fold of her blouse and bounded out from the tree.

"I am here, Mother," she said, somewhat breathless. The mirror seemed almost to catch fire against her skin, and she schooled her face into stillness, hoping against hope that Flemeth would not catch her with it.

Flemeth's eyes narrowed, and Morrigan's heart fluttered like a frightened bird.

_She knows..._ Morrigan thought, fear cutting off her breath.

But after a moment, Flemeth turned away and stalked off into the forest. "Come, girl," she called over her shoulder, and Morrigan hurried after, a mute sigh of relief spilling from her lips.

.oOo.

The carriages stopped when the sun began to set.

Cailan was acting strangely. Nervous, stammering, and he couldn't keep his eyes from her. Quite the change - he'd begun eyeing her with more interest than he had in days, which _was _somewhat refreshing. She'd been wondering if there was something wrong with her. He'd been all but unstoppable before, with the wandering hands and the begging for attention. It was only since the day she'd found him in the trophy room of Eamon's castle that he'd seemed to have lost interest.

But this renewed lust in his eyes was encouraging. It made her wonder if she might get her chance to be alone with him even before they got back to Denerim.

Following dinner, she made a show of yawning and stretching her hands.

"I'm off to bed," she said, and the king barely looked up as she stood to walk the few steps to her tent. Her father flickered a glance at Cailan, and gave her a bare nod of approval, the unspoken command loud and clear. Arranging her face into what she hoped was an appealing expression, she glanced at Cailan, and his eyes fairly glowed.

Tonight, then... a wedge of ice settled itself into her stomach. Not the way she had pictured her bridal night - a tent in the grasslands of the Bannorn - but then, she was learning that there was much in life that was different from what you expected.

_He'll be bumbling, and not know what to do,_ she thought in disgust. She doubted he even had the small education she'd gleaned from the few romance novels she'd read. In books, sex was so... romanticized. But given that nothing was what it appeared to be, she was apprehensive. She knew it would hurt, but beyond that, she had only written descriptions to go on.

Lowering herself to her knees, she began to undress, shaking hands fumbling at her hairpins. Honey blonde hair cascading around her, and she bit her lips to turn them red. Why was she cold? It was warm in the tent... Icy fingers pressed into her cheeks, which were hot enough that her frozen touch was soothing. Her body seemed to be at odds - shaking, burning and freezing, all at once. Perhaps she was ill...

When she had neatly folded her dress, brushed her hair and drawn on a thin shift, she sat back on the blanket and listened. Male voices were still echoing through the camp... she had time yet. Preparations complete, she folded her hands and began to pray.

.oOo.

"Isolde has proven herself trustworthy," Maric said. "She's received my endorsement. Haven't we put Eamon through enough hell? Let him be, Loghain." He snapped a dried stick in two and tossed the kindling on the fire. The glowing embers shifted, falling in on themselves, crackling with heat and launching a blaze of sparks into the inky blackness.

"It isn't Isolde I am concerned with, my liege," Loghain said. He reached into his pouch, and then hesitated. All noise had ceased in Anora's tent, something he had been listening for.

"Cailan, you look tired. Are you for bed, then?" Loghain asked, and the boy jumped.

"Uh-" Wide eyed, Cailan stammered, looking for words. "Bed. Yes. I-um..."

"Maric, I must speak with you privately, in any case. Will you walk with me? I don't want our conversation to keep the children awake," Loghain said, and Maric brushed his hands over his legs and rose.

"Sleep well, Cailan," Maric called, and Loghain could have sworn that Cailan's eyes grew twice as wide as they'd been before.

Loghain led Maric well away from the encampment, until the sounds of the night covered any noises that might be coming from... elsewhere.

"I've received word. From Orlais." He pulled the missive from his pouch and handed it to Maric, who unfolded it, squinting in the faint moonlight to read the words. A sigh escaped the king's lips, and he raised his eyes, unimpressed with Loghain's sense of urgency.

"Loghain, this is completely cryptic. A friend? ...I know you've been keeping up the networks in Orlais but really, it's time we brought those people home. They're risking their lives for nothing. The war is over! We drove them out sixteen years ago. There's no reason-"

"There is_ plenty _of reason!" Loghain cried. Why couldn't Maric _see_? Hard, furious lines creased his forehead as his brows crept downward, and he gritted his teeth, eyes telegraphing the black ire that was almost blinding him in its intensity.

Maric seemed not to notice, sighing and running a hand over his tawny hair. Loghain had never gotten over his anxieties about the rebellion. It had to be admitted - Emperor Florian was an ornery son-of-a-bitch, but they had dealt Orlais a decisive victory, and Florian had been licking his wounds ever since.

"Ferelden is what matters now. _Not_ Orlais. They can play their games and dance their dances and live in sin and eat cake. We have a kingdom to run." Maric thrust the paper back into Loghain's hands. "I'm calling all of the Fereldan operatives home. No more spies, Loghain. Leave them be."

"Maric, are you insane?" One hand clutched at the king's shoulder, knocking him back a step. "We need those eyes and ears! Some of them have been in place for years - the contacts they've made, the level of intelligence they're able to grant us -"

"It's _over,_ Loghain," Maric's voice was sharp. "As you said, some of those people have been in place for years. They've given up _years_ in service to Ferelden! Let them come home. Let them live their lives." A twitch of his shoulder, and Loghain's hand fell away. "I am the king, Loghain. You've been helping me since the beginning, and I'm grateful. You're the only man I want leading my armies." He leaned forward, his face hard. "But some things are outside your jurisdiction. Alistair, for instance. That boy is my son, and I've decided to let him go to the chantry - for now. But know this - it isn't because of _you_, and your insufferable attitude. Fiona asked me not to interfere in his life, and after considering, I've decided to honor that. It's the only thing she'll let me do for her, and I should do it, though it kills me not to have him."

"You're a fool, Maric," Loghain snarled.

"And _you_ are a righteous ass," Maric said as he turned. The king's footfall's faded away as he headed back to the camp, and Loghain caught his silhouette ducking into his tent. Cailan was nowhere to be seen.

.oOo.

'Twas lovely.

Morrigan sat in her room, a small chamber dug out from the very earth. 'Twas dark, but one small hole in the ceiling made a window through which she could see the crescent moon. She twirled the mirror in her fingers, admiring the sparkling gems encrusted over the back. Pearls, their ethereal shimmer drinking the pale moonlight. Opals, glimmering white with fiery highlights of red, green and blue. Clear crystals, as opulant as rippling water in the sun.

The mirror fit beautifully in her two hands, and she gazed at her reflection, which was far cleaner than it had been earlier. A dip into the lake had cleared the mud from her face, and she had done her best to finger-comb her hair and pick the briars and bits of crust from it. 'Twas smoother, at least. She set the mirror on the pallet, propping it on a bit of wood she used as a shelf, and twisted her hair up into a knot high on her head. She had a few smoothly carved sticks she used for tapping out musical rhythms, and she poked one of these through her hair, attempting the same look the princess had achieved. Her hair had been _up_, that was all she could remember. Once she had most of it off of her neck, she scooped the mirror up again, and inspected herself.

'Twas messy, that was certain.

She pulled the sticks from her hair and began again, determined to discover the trick of it. Weave it through _here_...a bit more _there..._

The door flew open, and she snapped the mirror up to her chest and shoved it into the folds of her shirt. There was silence behind her, and Morrigan was certain Flemeth was listening to the pounding of her heart, smelling the fear that must be pouring off of her in waves.

"What are you doing, girl?" The voice was low, and dangerous. Morrigan hitched a shuddering breath.

"Thinking. Meditating," she said, and soft footfalls signaled her mother's approach. She swallowed, trying to still her beating heart. It had been wrong to steal the mirror, she knew it - but she feared losing the pretty thing more than any punishment Flemeth might dole out.

"You've been quiet today," Flemeth said. She lowered herself down to the pallet, and Morrigan let her hands drop away from her chest. The mirror settled itself into a small fold in the fabric, and she tried not to think about it. Flemeth claimed she couldn't read thoughts, but Morrigan was honestly not sure if that was true. Much of what her mother said was worth questioning; this she was learning more than anything else.

"I've been... practicing," Morrigan said. "Practicing the ice spell you taught me."

"Have you," Flemeth said. Her voice was thick with amusement, and Morrigan's dark brows drew together. She felt a flash of anger. The woman found her funny? She _hated_ to be laughed at!

"Yes! Look!" One hand shot out, and a spume of ice unfolded over the earthen wall of her dugout room. Frost crept upward to touch the ceiling, thickening dangling roots into icy ropes, then into shining icicles. Within seconds, the wall was a slick of ice and cold. Morrigan smiled in triumph. Ice was a medium she felt at home with, and it was thrilling to prove her competence.

"Hmmm," Flemeth said, inspecting the wall. "Now melt it."

"I have done so, half a dozen times already," Morrigan scoffed. "I need not do it again."

"You lie," Flemeth said, her voice velvet and laced with danger.

Morrigan flushed. "You do not know that," she whispered.

"I do, and 'tis only because of your own foolishness," Flemeth said. Her fingers caressed the nape of Morrigan's neck, and then tightened. "Melt it." Her fingers squeezed again, and Morrigan wriggled away. She scowled, wondering how she had been caught in the lie, and then stretched out a hand to use a fire spell.

Fire wasn't as easy; much more draining. After a moment of concentration, waves of heat began shimmering from her hand, and then a stream of fire flowed from her fingertips. It collided with the wall, melting the ice in a slowly-expanding circle of dirty, dripping heat didn't spread the way the ice had, and Morrigan concentrated on aiming the spell higher and lower, moving the flames as necessary to fully melt the wall.

As it melted, the earth began to fracture, driblets of mud and earth _plopping _to the ground. There was a shifting above them, and Morrigan's heart gave a nervous _thump_. She hesitated, looking to her mother.

"Continue," Flemeth said, her face hard. Morrigan swallowed her fear, and continued her fire spell. The area near the floor was mostly melted, and the wall seemed to... sag...

_"Continue." _Flemeth's voice was frightening in its intensity, and Morrigan shot her hands toward the ceiling, aiming the flames high. She struggled to pull more mana, draining herself more quickly than she had thought. Fire was _difficult!_

The flames petered out, and she smiled at her mother. All was melted...if somewhat less shapely than before.

"Now. Freeze it again," Flemeth said softly.

Morrigan tried. She was exhausted, and even ice was challenging now. After a moment of harsh concentration, she summoned the ice, but the earth took to it with much less aplomb this time. Ribbons of cold snaked through the muddy wall, and in a moment she bent her head, exhausted.

Flemeth said nothing, and Morrigan breathed deeply, trying to find the will to continue. 'Twas important that Mother not see her as a weakling...

A strange, wet sound, and her eyes widened in a moment of fear as _the wall began to collapse. _

Flemeth stalked from the room, and slammed the door shut.

A rumbling in the ground, and Morrigan pushed herself to her feet as the wall began to slide inward, filling the little room with earth, mud and stones. Morrigan backed toward the door, setting her feet into a run. It was a bare few steps, but time seemed to slow, and the earth was approaching her feet as she yanked on the door handle, grasping to pull it open.

_It didn't budge_.

"Mother!" she shouted, the flat of her hand banging on the rough wood. _"Mother!"_

Horrifying silence. She pulled on the stubborn door again, the splintered handle cutting into her flesh. She was trembling, terrified that she would be covered in the earth, that it would creep up her legs and freeze her into place, blanket her with loose dirt and crush her lungs, fill her mouth and _bury her alive._..

_"MOTHER!"_ she screamed. Wailing her anguish, she clawed at the door, her nails breaking and fingertips bloodying. Something brushed her arm, and she whirled around, a sob choking from her throat. _The ceiling was collapsing..._

She began to hyperventilate. There was too much air, and yet not enough... it was making her dizzy, and she stumbled to the center of the room, falling to her knees and then pushing herself back up on scraped hands. _The window!_

She jumped for the tiny hole in the ceiling. She could claw it open, widen it enough to squeeze her skinny body through. It would work. _It had to!_

_She wasn't tall enough_.

"NO!" she shrieked, and pure panic clouded her vision. She whipped around, seeking something, _anything!_

The wall was sliding faster now, and there was dry, solid earth behind it, falling away in larger chunks. A fist-sized clod fell from the ceiling, breaking itself into two pieces on the floor, and she stared at it, mind awhirl with fear and confusion. Sudden inspiration struck, and she began to gather the earth, packing it into a ramp. The mud made it more difficult - what had possessed her to freeze an earthen wall?

Her hands were shaking so badly it was hard to control them, hard to get up enough strength to pack the earth tightly enough to hold her weight. Her feet came into play, and she tamped it down on hands and knees, testing it as she went. It grew, slowly, so slowly, but she gained confidence after a moment and continued the job, using bits of the ceiling and walls as they fell in.

Another moment, and she clambered up the ramp and made a desperate leap for the hole in the ceiling. Her fingers closed over the edge, and she began to sob with relief as she pulled herself up. Her muscles were shaking, her stomach heaving with nauseated angst.

It was a dirty, dirty job, to haul herself through the tiny hole. Pillbugs fell into her hair and she felt their disgusting legs wriggling over her neck as she squirmed the rest of the way through the hole, pulling herself up and onto the soft grass. Her arms nearly gave out at the last, muddy tears stinging her eyes, soft whimpers spilling from her lips. Never, never in all her life had she been so frightened. She rolled onto the earth, laying flat on her back as she panted. From a corner of the sky, the moon's smile shone down on her, and the scattering of stars twinkled, uncaring that she had just won a battle of life and death. Breath came easier, tingles of exhilaration sang over her skin, and a deep, deep ache flooded her bones. She began to cry again - relief paramount.

_Why hadn't her mother helped her?_

She sat up a moment later, sniffling, and lifted her chin to see Flemeth's bare feet coming across the grass.

"Mother," she whispered, and rose to reach her arms around her mother's waist. Flemeth's hands caressed her sodden hair, wiped bits of filth from her cheeks.

"Give me the mirror," she said, and Morrigan's heart stopped beating.

Without a word, she slipped her hand into her shirt and withdrew the precious treasure to drop it into Flemeth's fingers.

"You would risk our very lives...for a bauble." The words were thick with disgust, and shame flooded through the girl.

"'Twas beautiful..." she whispered, and Flemeth's hand crossed Morrigan's face in a stinging _slap_.

"Look at me, girl," she said, and Morrigan raised her eyes, shimmering with tears of pain and humiliation.

Flemeth lofted the mirror high into the air, and it hovered there, a bit of glitter decorating the night sky. A scant moment later it burst into a thousand pieces, becoming dust on the wind that rained across the forest, golden debris drifting across the Wilds.

"Come," Flemeth said. "We must find a new home, as your foolish behavior has destroyed this one. She strode into the forest, and Morrigan shuffled behind, her heart bleeding.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Solace was _hot_.

Alistair sat at the small table, the tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as his steadying fingers formed letters with a stick of graphite. Chanter Sarah's sharp, hawkish eyes were watching his every move, and the small boy was nervous enough already. About his writing, yes - he'd rather draw than write - but he was even more nervous about what was to come later on.

Arl Eamon had told him he'd be speaking with him after dinner. It must be something important... maybe it was a trip? No, probably not. The Arl and his new wife had just returned from Denerim, and they probably didn't want to go anywhere else for awhile.

Maybe Eamon intended to send him to the school down in the village? Alistair's heart flared with wild hope. After being spoiled with playmates every day during the week of Summerday, it was even harder to sit in the castle and do solitary lessons with Chanter Sarah, even lonelier to lollygag around the courtyard and watch the trainees at their sword and bow work. He'd had more companions than he'd ever been allowed, and it had been such _fun... _

The village school had let out for the summer, everyone being concerned with harvest and food storage for the coming winter season. Alistair would have given anything to cease his own lessons as well, but Chanter Sarah said there was no reason to let his mind go idle. He had no parents who needed help with harvesting; no father who needed him to drive a second wagon, no mother who needed his handy help in corralling younger siblings.

Or maybe... maybe Isolde was expecting a baby! The thought of a younger brother or sister made Alistair's heart skip a beat. Someone he could teach, and play with, and help care for. Eamon and Isolde had been married, well, not that long, but Alistair knew that once men and women married, children inevitably followed. It made sense! He grew more excited as he thought of himself as an older brother, imagining all of the things they would get to do together as the baby grew.

His mind skipped back to the moment in the yard when he'd been building the pebble castle with Lyra, and the fancy carriage had rolled into view, revealing his father - his real father - and the son he loved best. Cailan was such a ray of light, all shining and golden. It was no wonder King Maric preferred him over small Alistair, with his fingernails forever dirty and scrapes on his knees. He swung those knees beneath the desk, scratching lightly at the newest offending scab, obtained when he'd fallen from the wall while watching the trainees in the yard.

He concentrated on the vellum again, then sat up, easing a crick in his back. Chanter Sarah peered over the paper, and he looked up eagerly, hoping she would approve of what he'd written. After a moment of silent scanning, she gave a brief nod, and Alistair grinned.

"Now your name. At the bottom." Her finger touched the lowest part of the paper, beneath the paragraphs of scrawls.

Head bent again, he went to it - his name was easy, just a few dashes -

"Chanter, may I add a picture?" He looked up at his instructor, and she studied the vellum.

"You don't have much room... but perhaps we can add a second sheet," she said, and he took a new piece of vellum. He knew _just_ what he was going to draw.

.oOo.

"I wrote to Duncan today," Alistair announced at the dinner table. He'd been so proud of that letter - the first he'd composed almost entirely on his own. Chanter Sarah had helped, a little.

"Well done, lad," Eamon smiled at him as he sliced into a piece of cold ham. Alistair chugged his way through a glass of milk, feeling a sense of pride. Setting the cup back on the table, he dragged his arm across his mouth, drawing a sigh from Isolde.

"When can we send it? Where will it go? Where does Duncan live?" Alistair was full of eager questions, and Eamon sipped from his own cup.

"Duncan is on the move quite a bit. I wouldn't expect any kind of answer, Alistair. He's quite busy, you know, and I doubt he has much time for a small boy."

"But he told me he wanted to write to me," Alistair insisted. "He wouldn't tell me a lie."

"Alistair, eat your dinner," Isolde's refined voice said, and he turned resolutely into his snap beans. It was probably his _least_ favorite vegetable, and he nudged them into the gravy, hoping to improve the bitter flavor.

When Eamon had decided he'd eaten enough to qualify for sweets, and Alistair had finished his slice of plum cake, Isolde nestled her eggshell delicate teacup into its saucer and cleared her throat. She glanced from Alistair to Eamon, and the Arl clasped his hands and set them on the table before him. Alistair waited in eagerness... was the moment here?

"Alistair, we have something very important to tell you," Eamon began, and Alistair's legs began kicking under the table as he fought to contain his excitement.

"There are big changes coming," Eamon continued, and Isolde reached over to clasp his hand. He gave her a warm smile, and Alistair thought he might burst.

"Are you having a baby?" he blurted out. "Are you giving me a brother or sister?" An eager smile brightened his face, and a shocked gasp slipped from Isolde's lips. Alistair's smile faded at the harsh look in her eyes, and Eamon placed a placating hand on her shoulder.

"Isolde, he meant no offense." the Arl said, his eyes gentle. He turned to the boy, who was shrinking back into his chair. "Alistair, you did nothing wrong. Although usually, we do not bring delicate subjects such as that up at the table."

"Nothing wrong?" Isolde cried. "You truly see nothing wrong with what he said?"

"Well, no," Eamon said, his voice sounding a bit cross. "But you do, obviously. Enlighten us, please?"

Isolde turned chilled eyes on the small boy. He twisted the edges of his pants between his fingers, sweat breaking out over his palms.

"I am _not _your mother," Isolde hissed. "You are _not_ his son. And when we _do_ have a child, you will _not_ be a brother."

"Isolde!" Eamon gasped, but Isolde forged ahead, her anger over Alistair and the rumors that floated around him pushing her over the edge. Had Isolde _actually_ been with child, perhaps she would not have reacted as harshly as she did. But her monthly courses were as regular as ever, and Alistair's reminder of her childless state was a slap in the face. Her thirty-second name day was rapidly approaching, and she could feel the months ticking away.

"You have been Eamon's ward long enough, child. You will be sent to Denerim, to study in the Chantry." Isolde's voice was bordering on triumphant, and Eamon pressed his eyes shut as an exasperated sigh escaped his lips. The enmity his wife felt for his ward puzzled him, but to his knowledge, she'd never been _this_ cruel.

"But-" Alistair turned frightened eyes on his guardian. "Eamon, you're sending me away?"

Eamon's blue eyes sparked with anger. "Isolde, this is inexcusable-"

"Eamon," Alistair said urgently, slipping out of his chair. He came to stand by the only man who'd ever been a father to him, and placed a small hand on his arm. Rounded, freckled cheeks were drawn, his wide hazel eyes filled with anxiety. Eamon turned to him, unsure of what to say. This had _not_ been the way he'd intended for his ward to learn the news.

"Eamon?" Alistair said again, his voice dropping to a choked whisper. "It isn't true, is it? You wouldn't send me away... would you?"

Eamon clasped the small hand in his own, and sighed. "I'm sorry, my boy. You're going to Denerim in the morning. There will be other children for you to play with. The Chantry school is well attended-"

"No," Alistair whispered in horror, his tawny head shaking back and forth. "I don't want to go. Don't make me, please!"

"You are lucky Eamon has cared for you for so long. ," Isolde interjected in a cruel voice, her face a frigid mask. "Most bastard children are killed at birth."

A stifled whimper fell from Alistair's lips, and his eyes squeezed shut. He turned and fled, Eamon's voice entreating him to return. He paid no attention, his scrawny legs carrying him up the stairs and to his room, where he pushed the door closed and flung himself on the bed. He curled himself into a tight knot, huddling in the blankets, aching sobs racking their way up to bury themselves in his pillow.

A soft knock a few moments later, and he halted his ragged breath to listen.

"Alistair," Eamon's muffled voice sounded through the oaken door. "Will you come back downstairs? Isolde would like to apologize to you."

"No," he called in a watery voice. "I _hate_ her."

"Alistair-"

"I HATE HER!" he screamed. He sat up in the bed and kicked his legs into the covers, crusts of dried mud flaking into the coverlet and smearing it with dirt. He should have removed his shoes first - Gert would tan his hide. Oh wait, he wouldn't _be_ here.

"I hate her, I hate her, I hate her! And I hate YOU!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with the passion he threw into the final note. Seeking release for the fury that was bubbling up within his soul, he yanked one boot from his foot and sent it spiraling at the wall. It smacked against the stone with a satisfying _thwack_, and he took grim pleasure in seeing it clash against the granite floor. A second boot followed the first, hitting heel-first against a tapestry and leaving a dark smudge on the woven fabric. He sought further violence, and leapt from his bed to pull the books from his shelves and fling them across the room. The water jar was next, and the sound of shattered glass was vaguely frightening to his ears. He'd never dared _this_ much destruction - such behavior had never occurred to him before. Gert would whip him.

But he was leaving. Gert could never whip him again.

Breath coming quickly, he surveyed the mess, then decided he should clean up the glass, at least. Sniffling, he looked around for something with which to sweep up the mess, and leaned down to pick up a book from the floor. He could use the open cover as a sort of dustpan, and perhaps another book to shove the shards into a more manageable pile -

As he bent, the locket he wore around his neck slipped from his shirt and banged him in the nose.

He forgot his intention with the books and the glass, and slipped the locket from his neck to open it and gaze on the woman inside. His mother stared back, a fond smile on her beautiful face, her vivid blue eyes shining out at him, just as they always did.

"You wouldn't make me go to Denerim," he murmured, and then ugly realization filled his soul. His mother was the very _first_ person who had abandoned him. If she'd loved him at all, she would have lived, would have stayed with him - but she had died, left him all alone in the world with no one who cared two bits for an orphaned boy.

Temper flaring once more, he hurled the locket away. It impacted with the stone wall and cracked into several pieces, and Alistair flung himself into his bed once more and cried himself to sleep.

.oOo.

From the window of her room, Isolde watched as the rest of the household said their goodbyes to Eamon's ward. It was a meager gathering - a few servants, a groomsman, the kennel master and a few mabaris, and the Arl. Gert, the cook, was on hand as well, and gave the boy a rough hug, her sturdy hands cupping his rounded face for a moment before she trundled off, likely headed to the kitchens to begin breakfast preparations. Eamon ruffled the boy's hair, and Alistair threw skinny arms around his waist. Even from this distance and at this early, not-quite-light hour of the morning, Isolde could see that the boy's eyes were reddened and his face puffy from tears. He nuzzled his head into Eamon's shirt, and her husband's arms went around the child, awkward. Always awkward - Eamon had never connected with Alistair in the way that Isolde _knew_ he would connect with their children. When the Maker saw fit to bless them with children, of course... which she prayed would be soon.

Eamon knelt before Alistair, his strong hands lightly gripping the boy's upper arms as he said something. Sound was impossible to make out at this distance, but whatever it was, Alistair nodded, his face solemn, and then his face crumpled, eyes squinching shut as he turned and clambered into the back of the wagon. He settled himself in among the crates, pulling his cloak around his body, a small cloth bag of his few possessions serving as a pillow to his auburn head. Isolde knew just what that bag contained - two changes of clothing, extra socks, and a book of blank vellum, half-filled with drawings and sketches. Eamon straightened, his eyes arcing over to his steward as he pulled a paper from his pouch. He gave it into the hands of his steward, then the two men shook hands. Isolde hoped the man would remember to obtain some of the perfumed soap she liked, the one from the Orlesian stall in the Denerim town square. It was on the list Eamon had given him, but Maker only knew if he would recall just where to get it.

She turned away from the window as the supply wagon began to rumble off, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. At last, the lad was gone. For the first time in years, she felt as though she could breathe more easily, and she climbed back into the great bed in her room and snuggled down between the sheets, a delightful drowse overtaking her.

Birdsong and the bright mid-morning sun woke her a few hours later, and Isolde's heart was light as a feather as she sent Gwena to the kitchen for a breakfast tray. Alistair was gone, and with him, the awful rumors! No one could accuse Eamon of sending his own son away to the Chantry. At last, the stigma of the bastard would be gone from her life. She felt like caroling for joy. Her soft-boiled egg had never tasted better, and she treated herself to an extra pat of butter for her toast, ignoring Gwena's derisive sniff.

Isolde tended to a few household chores that day. She spoke with Gert about the supplies they had on hand, and sent a contingent of hunters out for fresh meat. The recent heat wave had spoiled a batch of milk, so she arranged for the cooks to make clabber cheese from the curds. When Eamon's steward returned, he would bring dyes and thread for winter clothing, and she set one of her maids to measuring the household. Everyone would receive a new outfit, and there would be the recycling of cloaks and shoes, the older and more worn pieces being repaired or cut down. She joined the women in the afternoon as they spun and wove, enjoying the female company and even taking on a share of the spinning - a task she personally hated. But one could only do so much fancy work in a frontier castle such as this one. After she'd finished the altar cloth for the Chantry, there was nothing left that needed her deft embroidery needle, so she put her nose to the grindstone and joined the other women in the more practical sewing. A few merry, social hours passed, and then she left the servants to their work and went to see about dinner preparations.

She found Gert crouched in the corner, sobbing her eyes out. The hefty cook had begun to prepare an afternoon snack for the lad before remembering he was no longer there, and it had sent her into a tizzy. She was inconsolable over Alistair's leavetaking, and Isolde spent a few uncomfortable minutes trying to reassure her that the lad would be taken care of, without success.

"'E was such a good boy, mistress," Gert blubbered. "The on'y boy I'm likely to 'ave, and I didn't tell 'im. I never told 'im that I loved 'im. I was 'arsh, I was - an' all 'e wanted was a lil' love. A lil' love, a fam'ly... Isn' that all any of us want?" Gert was waxing philosophical, for her. She blew her nose into her apron, her words jangling in Isolde's skull. She recalled the last thing the boy had said to her, discomfort waging a war within her.

_"Are you giving me a brother or sister?" _His hopeful face, shining with light... Isolde's stomach twisted as she remembered her own hate-filled words to Alistair.

The arlessa fled the room after not very long, seeking something, _anything_ else that needed doing.

She passed by the chamber that had served as Alistair's school room, and her footsteps paused, the silence seeming uncanny. Always, at this time of day, Alistair was seated at his small desk, Chanter Sarah's droning voice lecturing about something, or coaching him through an assignment of some sort. Her feet carried her into the room, and she pursed her lips, trying to decide what it would become now that the small nuisance was no longer a part of her home life.

Her eyes were drawn to the miniature desk, and she opened the lid, wondering if she should save it for her own child, or if she should... she lost her train of thought as her eyes raked over the piece of vellum that lay atop the other papers and supplies. Delicate hands lifted the paper from the grained wood, and her heart stuttered as she realized just what was on the page.

A sketch of herself, face smiling, hair neat and tidy, her arm slipped through Eamon's, stared back at her. Her husband's face was smiling as well, and they were in fancy clothing. In front of Eamon stood a small boy whose hair stood up a bit in front, and on the boy's shoulder, Eamon's hand was laid. All of them, standing together as though they had posed that way, the perfect picture of a happy family.

The sketch was rough, and lacked fine details, but it was clear who it was, and Isolde felt a twinge at her heart. Had the boy drawn it as a gift? She turned it over, and on the back were scrawled the words "My family".

She laid it back on the desk, her hands trembling ever so slightly, and stalked out of the room.

.oOo.

Isolde was in her room seated before her vanity, her shaking hands trying their best to twist her hair into its usual chignon but finding the task to be outside their ability. She cursed under her breath and laid the slender hairpin on the table to press her fingers to her eyes.

He was _gone_. She should be happy about it, but now she was wondering if she hadn't been selfish. Eamon had never said he would name the boy his heir - why had she been so worried? Was she truly so vapid as to send him away from the only home he'd had, the only father figure he'd ever known, and - she swallowed to think of it - the only mother he'd ever cared for? Between herself and Gert, she supposed they'd made a sort of parent for him... it had hurt her heart to see the drawing Alistair had done. She'd never thought of herself as his mother, and it had never occurred to her that the boy might _wish_ for her to be his mother. Only Eamon had cared for her so much. Her own family had been political - her own mother had cared more about her potential marriage, and it was only her brother Rene who had made her feel truly loved - until Eamon. Now she wished she had given Alistair more of a chance. She'd been so blinded by the rumors, her upbringing in political Orlais masking the true thing that mattered. And now, it was too late... he was gone.

A soft tap on her door brought her out of her reverie.

"Come," she called, and Sylvie, one of the maids, pushed the door open and peeked in at her.

"Mistress," she said. "What would you have me do with Master Alistair's things?"

"His things?" Isolde said, her voice faint.

"He left some clothing in his room. Shall I..."

"I shall look through them," Isolde said, pushing herself away from the vanity. Her honey-blonde hair fell around her shoulders in soft curls, and she brushed them back as she followed Sylvie to Alistair's room.

She had rarely been in here, and she found herself looking around, curiosity overcoming her aversion. The walls had been tinted a soft blue, while the curtains and bedspread were of a deeper shade. A small model boat was perched on a shelf, along with another collection of drawings. Isolde found herself wanting to go and look through them, but Sylvie gestured to the bed, and Isolde stepped over to begin the task of sorting through the clothing that had been left behind. Her gaze continued to drift around the room, and her eyes fell on a few shards of... glass? Broken glass on the floor?

"Sylvie, is that broken glass? Sweep it up, please," Isolde said, irritated. Had the boy broken something and not told the maids?

"Yes, mistress," Sylvie murmured, and returned a moment later with a hand-broom and dustpan. She made quick work of the glass, and then moved to another place in the room that apparently needed the broom's attention. Her movements grew hesitant, and she straightened up from the floor, a bit of something held in her fingertips.

"What is it?" Isolde asked as she folded a shirt.

"Mistress, this appears to be a bit of broken jewelry." Sylvie brought the shard to Isolde, who turned it over in curiosity. This looked like Alistair's locket - but why was it broken?

She set the shirt down on the bed and moved to the small mess on the floor, kneeling to look more closely. Her fingers gathered the pieces into a pile, and then collected them into her palm, along with the chain. The locket had been made of a kind of clay, then painted. Isolde had only seen it once or twice since the boy kept it forever around his neck, and she wondered what would possess him to remove it. It was a shame that it had been broken, and she was on the verge of telling Sylvie to toss it in with the rest of the trash.

"Is that Master Alistair's locket?" Sylvie said, her voice reverent. "Oh, mistress! Why would he leave that behind? It was his own mother pictured there, it was!"

Isolde's heart skipped a beat. _That_ was why he wore it?

She swallowed, and her fingers curled closed, trapping the loose bits within her palm.

"See that the clothing is given to the servants who have children of a size, Sylvie. And do not disturb me. I shall be down for dinner," she said brusquely, and hurried from the room.

.oOo.

Isolde did not consider herself to be artistic, but she was neat-handed. She could sew, spin, and do fancy needlework. Her eyes were bright, and sharp enough to see the individual leaves on the trees when she and Eamon went walking - something she knew he was having trouble with already. She seated herself at the table in her room, a small pot of glue and the broken locket set before her, and it took only a few minutes of work to fix.

The locket had split in a very clean way - her clever fingers found it simple to fit the pieces back together, and she held the shards tightly against each other in her fingers, counting to one hundred before she loosed her grip, wanting to be certain that the glue would hold. When all was reassembled, she brushed her fingers off and smiled at her handiwork. The locket was as good as new, almost. A faint network of cracks could be seen across the back, but that couldn't be helped - she had done the best she could. She left it sitting on the table to cure overnight, and closed the door softly behind her.

.oOo.

Dinner finished and his face washed, Alistair curled himself deeper into his makeshift bed in the wagon. The stars were bright as fire in the sky above, and he yawned, the long day of travel colored by his grief closing his heavy eyelids. In his fingers he clutched his letter to Duncan, and rolled tightly within the vellum was the picture he'd drawn for his mentor... the Grey Warden griffin.


End file.
